


Count to Two

by verellie



Series: Reset to Zero, Count to Two [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 05:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 42,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7086781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verellie/pseuds/verellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Bucky was woken up, he had been napping a lot because he suffered from headaches. Sleep gave him time to connect to the past and sometimes... to dream. In his sleep, Bucky recollected many incidents he had lost since he fell into Zola’s hand. Childhood. Fooling around with Steve. Enlistment. A blend of sweet dreams about Brooklyn’s girls and nightmares from Austria when he was in HYDRA’s custody formed in his head. He remembered the missions issued by Pierce and Karpov before him. All came in clear, vivid images. Except...</p><p>Cloudy flashbacks haunted him at night. They were different from the other parts of his life. Bucky saw himself with a man. The man served him food. They talked at the dining table but he had no idea what they were talking about. The man observed him while Bucky pretended he didn’t care to be observed. The visions were vague and occasionally pitch-black. They always ended with a blood-soaked figure curling up on a floor. He couldn’t tell exactly that it was real or just mere fantasy, but every time he saw that bloody body, he would wake up in a cold sweat, screaming one single name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read "Reset to Zero" first before you dive into this story. Or you will not understand why Bucky asked Steve about Rumlow. In the movie, these two had never talked to each other.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6299548
> 
> The timeline might be confusing at first. The first section tells a story that happened before 'Winter Soldier' and the second section tells a story that happened after 'Civil War'. Steve had Bucky released from the ice.
> 
> Thank you for visiting this page!

The laboratory was drowning in subdued light and the soft sound of footsteps. Two slim guys wearing eyeglasses and white shirts walked back and forth between a chair and three monitors. They whispered while steel walls and shiny ceiling were listening to them quietly. The room was packed with chilly air and stunk like a hospital, the place that reeked of white lies saying that injections wouldn’t be terrible. Hospital’s smell offered a chance to live, yet gave out a strong odor of deathless mortality, foul cleanliness, and seasoned sickness of mind.

The metal cold grave was enclosed by three levels of thick metal bars and cage doors, secured by a fully armed hit squad standing at every corner. This place was called laboratory but it was a torture chamber. Amid the guns was Sergeant James Barnes strapped to the electroshock chair. His sorrowful face was covered with damp brown hair and beads of nervous sweat.

Sitting across the room facing the soldier, Brock’s wrists and ankles were tied up to a metal chair. He was stripped of his shirt. Comparing himself to Barnes, the HYDRA agent felt underrated by the number of guns pointing at him. Fresh blood clung to his left eye and corners of his mouth. He had fought a great deal before being lashed to this goddamn chair like a goddamn livestock. Sadly, only a SIG Sauer pushed at the back of his head while Barnes was being watched closely like a deadly lion.

The grated door squeaked open and slammed shut. Alexander Pierce led a security team inside. He was wearing an expensive three piece suit and an arrogantly arrogant face. He took off his eyeglasses.

Day in, day out, Pierce’s gesture manifested a vibe of power and hubris. He was intelligent. Smart as a whip. And unkind. He had the brain, the authority, and the insensitivity, three things that shouldn’t come in the same package unless you wanted to destroy mankind. Alexander Goodwin Pierce owned a perfect mind without feelings. He had a heart that lacked pounding. His wide eyes were like those of a baby doll, made of cheap glass, fake and disturbing.

Pierce asked, “how are you boys doing?” He took a step to the middle of Brock and Barnes.

No one answered.

The old man turned his pale face to Brock, both hands stuffed in his pants’ pockets. “I can’t believe you two were screwing. Are you out of your mind?” Pierce rarely showed any emotions but this time, his thin lips noticeably contorted with anger. Antipathy was plain to see.

Still, Brock didn’t give any answers. He lowered his eyes to the floor when he heard Pierce say, “you dogs, both of you.”

Brock lifted his head. He looked the old man in the eye and got slapped across the face. Pierce took a rifle from his bodyguard. He hit Brock with it. Again. And again. And again. Brock didn’t yelp.

Barnes watched every blow from across the room. Their eyes locked. The hit turned his head, but Brock always swung it back to meet the man sitting opposite to him. The soldier clenched his fists. The fists got tighter and tighter as the rifle’s stock delivered a harder and harder blow to Brock’s head.

Only when Brock’s chin was smeared with blood did Pierce stop. “You are a disgrace,” Pierce spat the words out. “I could have killed you. But you are still useful. I’ll let you live but you must apologize. Now.”

Brock tried to speak but his breath only ended with a bitter groan.

“Try harder.” Pierce encouraged him with another shot to the gut. “Say it won’t happen again.”

Brock clenched his jaw and kept still. If he was going to say something to Pierce, it wouldn’t sound like an apology.

Pierce didn’t mind waiting but his patient was quickly running low. He returned the rifle to the guard and snapped his finger. The nerds in white shirts came forward. The boss jerked his chin to Barnes. “Wipe him.”

Barnes’ eyes widened. He shook his arms but they were perfectly tied up. Even so, the hit squad pointed their guns at him without fail.

“Erase all of his memories,” Pierce ordered, “especially the distasteful ones.”

“No!” Brock shouted.

The scientists pushed Barnes against the back of the chair—the routine they had been doing over and over since Barnes was made Winter Soldier. HYDRA put the soldier in the cryogenic storage, only brought him out when they wanted a job done.

 

They would wash Barnes’ memories away with electroshock until the man was left with nothing except his immortal empty shell, then sent him out to do their dirty jobs.

Pierce studied Brock. An evil smile appeared on the corner of the older man’s mouth. “Be happy. You got the best seat to watch the show. To watch him forget all about you.”

“Son of a bitch! Let him go!”

Pierce tilted his head. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll kill you, bastard.”

Pierce laughed and talked to the guards. “Punish him.”

The man behind Brock’s back smacked him with the SIG Sauer then grabbed his hair as the other guy punched him in the face. The next blows struck him in the gut. Heavy fists rammed his stomach. His piss would be bloody tomorrow if Pierce let him live. Brock gritted his teeth refusing to cry out in pain. But the punches hurt enough. He threw up blood and couldn’t help letting pathetic moans escape.

Barnes’ face was painted with ire. Watching Brock being punished, the soldier clenched his jaw and growled. Barnes jerked his metal arm sharply and this time he broke free. Barnes pushed himself off the chair. However, before he could do anything, the man behind Brock’s back thrust the gun to Brock’s temple. “Sit the fuck down or I blow his head off.”

Brock tried to look at Barnes but his vision was fuzzy. He only saw a blurred figure silently drop back to the chair, and then, he heard Pierce laugh.

“How precious!” Pierce clapped his hands. “Do you have any words to say to each other before I proceed?”

“Don’t fight it. Get out of here alive.” Barnes’ voice was hoarse and wailing. “We’ve done this so many times. If I were you, I wouldn’t bat an eye. And if you meet my pal, please, please tell Rogers....”

“When you gotta go, you gotta go,” Pierce interjected with a smile. The old man clapped his hands. “Winter Soldier has made up his mind so, go on. Wash him clean.”

Barnes laid himself on the chair. His beautiful eyes were wet with despair. He fixed his glare at Brock, parted his lips just wide enough to accept the gum-shield into his mouth. All without protest. The soldier huffed sharply when the electroshock machine was turned on.

The guards threw Brock on the floor. Brock was smitten with clubs and combat boots, but those things couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Only Winter Soldier’s scream of agony could cut him to the core.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline might be confusing again. The first section is Rumlow's story after Winter Soldier movie. And the second section is 6 months after Civil War as it will be from this chapter on. Hope you enjoy it! :)

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes was sitting on a bed in a white room lit by white light. The mattress was pleasingly tender but the brightness was cruel, especially for Bucky who had been asleep for half a year.

Ten days ago, Steve got him out of the ice and informed him that he would be provided a new prosthetic arm made of Vibranium by the order of King of Wakanda.

Two doctors checked his left shoulder this morning to make sure that he was ready for the new organ. The operation was ensured to be carried out on the next Monday.

A plate of freshly baked croissant stuffed with sweet plum jam was sitting on Bucky’s lap. The pastry was decorated with whipped cream and berries. The rich scent of butter and fruit tingled his nose. Bucky grabbed the golden crescent shape and dug in. Inside of the crunchy croissant was so delicate it melted in Bucky’s mouth. Bucky swallowed the food, swept his tongue across his lips to clean off the whipped cream, reminding himself that he was safe here. The food was delicious. People were nice. He was going to get his arm back in a week or so. But still… he didn’t know why he felt so empty inside.

Bucky took another bite. The taste of warm plum jam and soft layers should have been overwhelming. But it wasn’t. It started to taste like a candle. Something… something was warmer and more soothing. Something he would like to eat. But he couldn’t tell what it was.

A video clip was being played on the television. In the footage, a group of white young men were lining up to board a plane. They dressed similarly wearing black T-shirts and cargo pants. The uniform made them look like they were in some kind of police or military force. Another man in an obvious military gear was holding a gray writing pad. Probably, he was asking each young man for his name.

The scene changed. This time, the clip looked like it was shot by a cheap security video camera. Young men were gathering in a dark warehouse surrounded by an armed troop. A bald headed muscular man was giving a speech. His posture suggested that he was high-ranked but he was quite young for that. At the end of the clip, the men raised both of their fists to the sky and yelled repeatedly.

Bucky didn’t have to be a lip-reading expert to figure out what these idiots were yelling.

Hail HYDRA.

Those fuckers were coming back.

The door of his room creaked open. T’Challa —King of Wakanda—came into the room followed by Captain America in his casual T. Steve was holding a brown envelope. He made the same face as when he rescued Bucky from Zola’s deserted laboratory. Worry, worry, and worry. After Steve saw what Bucky was eating, his lips slightly rounded up into a smile.

“Hey.” The big man said and sat down at the edge of the bed. He grabbed Bucky’s arm. “You feel alright?”

“You’re talking like my grandma.”

Steve smirked and told the King, “he’s alright.”

“The doctor said that Mr. Barnes still has headaches,” T’Challa said, “but it will not affect Monday’s operation. We can proceed as planned.”

“Are you sure that you’re going to put Vibranium on me?”

If the operation succeeded, Bucky would regain his ability to fight. He would be fortified with a cybernetic arm made of the strongest material on earth.

T’Challa looked at Steve. Steve nodded. “I’m sure.”

“You can’t trust my head. I don’t trust my head.”

“We need you to be ready for this.” Steve pointed his thumb to the monitor. “If HYDRA is really coming back, you and I will destroy it together.”

“But...”

Steve pulled a notebook out of the envelope. A leather-bound red notebook with a black star on the cover.

Bucky took a sharp breath. His body got tense.

Steve smiled tenderly. “Nat and I stole it from the government. We will leave it to the King here.” Steve gave the notebook to T’Challa who said, “if you trust me.”

“You will team up with me. No one will mess with you. No one will stand long enough to say those Russian words.” Steve took Bucky fist into his palms. “I promise.”

“They are trigger words. Used to put me into a trance.”

Anyone could suggest him to do anything.

HYDRA brainwashed him so they could control him more easily. When he became nothing but a retard who couldn’t remember his own name, by these evil words, they would force him into subconsciousness. And then, they would make a post-hypnotic suggestion—order—which Bucky would definitely follow. He had been commanded to do so many vicious missions. Assassinations. It sounded like a dark magic in fairy tales but it was real. It had controlled him for decades.

“It’s an incurable disease, pal. Planted deep inside my head and it won’t go away unless I put a hole in my brain,” Bucky said. “I don’t think the new arm is a good idea.”

Steve looked at him. Sad eyes. “You deserve a life, Buck. I don’t want to see you imprison yourself in a fridge like a piece of meat. Stop thinking about bullets in your head.”

“What if… what if they got me?”

“I’ll look after you. Always.” Steve stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “Did you watch the video clip?”

Bucky nodded. He was a bit upset because Steve didn’t listen to his warning and his begging to be kept away.

“Do you remember anyone? Are they HYDRA agents?”

“Low-ranked agents had no chance to meet me.” Bucky shook his head. “I don’t remember any of these guys. Where did you get the video clip?”

“It’s shared all over the internet. They are recruiting,” Steve explained. “Mostly the recruits are young men and women. They can be the other group of terrorists, though.”

“A neo-HYDRA or some shit?”

“Or they are just punks playing HYDRA to gain popularity in social medias,” T’Challa put his two cents.

“We’re looking into it,” Steve said. He turned his face to Bucky. “First thing first, I need you to be ready. Stuff yourself with nutrients. Get out of bed and get in shape.”

“I’m not fat,” Bucky grumbled.

Steve threw him a lopsided grin, and then, his expression became serious. “You still has nightmares? The doctor told me you had nightmares.”

Bucky put the plate away and looked at the mattress. He rubbed his face.

Since Bucky was woken up, he had been napping a lot because he suffered from headaches and, most of the time, the doctor wouldn’t allow him to do anything else. Sleep gave him time to connect to the past and sometimes... to dream.

In his sleep, Bucky recollected many incidents he had lost since he fell into Arnim Zola’s hand. Childhood. Fooling around with the smaller Steve. Enlistment. Peaceful events. Or hideous ones. A blend of sweet dreams about Brooklyn’s girls and nightmares from Austria when he was in HYDRA’s custody formed in his head. He remembered the missions issued by Alexander Pierce and Vasily Karpov before him. Dates, names and places. All came in clear, vivid images.

Except.

Cloudy flashbacks haunted him at night. They were different from the other parts of his life. Bucky saw himself with a man. The man served him food but he couldn’t remember what it was. They talked at the dining table but he had no idea what they were talking about. The man observed him while Bucky pretended he didn’t care to be observed. The visions were vague and occasionally pitch-black. They always ended with a blood-soaked figure curling up on a floor. He couldn’t tell exactly that it was real or just mere fantasy, but every time he saw that bloody body, he would wake up in a cold sweat, screaming one single name.

“Do you know Rumlow?”

Steve knit his eyebrows and casually leaned against the wall. “Of course, I knew him. Why do you ask?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He is dead.”

“What?” Bucky’s sight became dark.

“He tried to kill me with a suicide bomb in Lagos. Wanda saved me. Rumlow is gone.”

Bucky pressed his temple. The headache was coming back. The picture of hunched body on the floor and the sea of blood flooded his memory, hammering a nail into his heart.

Two guards pulled Rumlow up and dragged him closer, closer to where Bucky was standing, or sitting, how could he know? They lifted the unconscious Rumlow to Bucky and laughed rudely to his face.

‘He can’t save you, faggot.’

The metal hand grasped the guard’s head and squeezed, breaking the skull. The other guy screamed and tried to recede. The bastard didn’t get any luckier.

“Rumlow said he’d met you,” Steve told him. “He told me that you’d left a message for me, ‘when you gotta go, you gotta go.’”

“I...” Bucky breathed heavily. “I didn’t say that.”

“Thought so.”

No, he hadn’t said those words. Pierce had.

Bucky remembered what had happened.

Why did it have to be too late?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_If I had a magic mirror,_

_I would ask Mirror,_

_What tomorrow would bring,_

_I would sit down and drink coffee,_

_Waiting for Mirror to say ‘nothing.’_

 

As his eyes met the first light, sharp pain charged at Brock like a rabid wild dog. His head was biting as if there were needles poking into his temples. He moved his fingers while his dull senses were struggling to adjust. He was in a room that looked like a basement with gray concrete ceiling and no windows. There were a washbasin and a dusted mirror on the wall. A giant moth clung to the mirror. Black circles on its wings looked like beast’s eyes glaring at him.

An acute smell of gasoline and chemicals suffocated him as an uncaring lamp sent down a thin shaft of light. A hard surface was pushing his aching back while a rough sheet of a heavy blanket was pressing onto his front. It was a gray charity woolen blanket with thin red lines. When Brock tried to move his hands, he became realized that his upper body was wrapped in bandages. Underneath the frustrating sheets, his skin felt bone dry and itched. Hoarse groan echoing in his singed throat sounded like a sweeping sound of brown dying leaves.

At least, he wasn’t tied to the bed. Brock let out a long painful growl and pushed himself to the sitting position. He lifted his hands to his lips and pulled off the metal clips holding the bandage with his teeth. Brock quickly unfastened the hands. He expected to see scorched black layers and fried flesh but, to Brock’s surprise, his burned skin was healed, only covered with pale red scars shrinking and tightening all over the surface. Brock got on his two feet and walked to the mirror. Whoever took care of him had done a good job recuperating his destroyed face, the skin on his face was uneven but he still looked like the old Brock. Cruel and ugly.

The door of the room swung open. Brock saw in the mirror that a short guy in a black suit came in with two bodyguards in combat suits, guns hung at their hips. Not Pierce. They stopped at the bed. Brock turned to face them.

“Good morning, Mr. Rumlow.”

Brock didn’t know the guy but he could guess. This guy didn’t smell like a cop nor a government idiot as much as this place didn’t pass as a hospital for the wounded and the poor.

“Where am I?” Brock asked.

“Safe place.” The guy smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re waking up and healthy. We’ve lost so many of brothers. We need every help we can get.”

“What happened?”

“Fury and Black Widow released everything to the internet,” Shorty told him, “S.H.I.E.L.D. went down dragging HYDRA with it. Most of us were captured.”

Brock went to sit on the bed. Two bodyguards loomed over him, arms across their puffing chests.

“What about Pierce?”

“He’s dead.”

_Hallelujah._

“We have something to ask you, Mr. Rumlow.”

“Shoot.”

“Where is Winter Soldier?”

Brock lifted his eyebrows. “I was dragged out of a collapsed building and you ask me where he is? How...,” the fuck, “...can I know?”

“Winter Soldier is AWOL. In the past, whenever he went missing, he went to your place.”

“I don’t recall that.”

“That’s fine. I want you to find him.” The guy used an ordering tone. “As soon as you are fully healed of course. I want you to bring him back to us. Can you do that?”

Facing Winter Soldier was like confronting a driverless tank. The soldier was fearless and beautifully merciless as much as he was mercilessly beautiful. It was always fascinating to catch the sight of him on a mission. Brock was breathless every time he had a chance to watch. The soldier would walk across war zones without any concern nor dread as if he had all time in the world. As if he had no bleeding heart to worry about. Brock’s eyes followed the soldier everywhere as the killing machine destroyed everything, leaving wreckage everywhere he had stomped on. Taking a lovely walk in a battlefield wasn’t a smart thing to do, but he was _the_ Winter Soldier, so he had the right to.

Brock was thrilled by the thought of Winter Soldier and himself battling. He had never grabbed a hold of that killing robot. Never once. He could only watch from afar and get excited like a ten-year-old boy blindly obsessed with a superhero.

_Can I do that?_

Brock asked himself.

Could he find Winter Soldier?

Could he get the best of the soldier?

Would he bring the monster back?

He could not. He knew that he couldn’t. And deep down inside, he somehow didn’t want to. But if he didn’t bring Winter Soldier back, all of it would become history. All of it.

“He might have gotten his memory back. He might have been reunited with his friend,” Brock murmured.

“Not yet. As far as we know, he is in hiding. You need to find him before Steve Rogers does.”

The name stung badly.

Brock rubbed his scarred face and remembered the time Winter Soldier brought this guy up in front of Pierce. The memory of Pierce slapping across Winter Soldier’s face hit Brock hard and fast he almost roared in anger, as if he were the one being slapped.

‘ _The man on the bridge’, the soldier asked, ‘who was he?’_

_The heartless Winter Soldier suddenly had a heart, an anxious heart on top of that. He was far... far away on that bridge when he listened to Pierce’s piece of crap about shaping the century. His face was covered with sorrow. His eyes were wet. He didn’t want to be punished but he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let Steve Rogers go._

“Can you bring Winter Soldier back, Mr. Rumlow?” The short guy demanded an answer.

“What if he ain’t Winter Soldier no more?”

“Kill him.”

Brock nodded. “And you leave Steve Rogers to me.”

“He’s all yours.” The guy grinned. “Hail HYDRA.”

Brock didn’t say anything.

As they were preparing to leave, Brock grabbed the bodyguard’s gun. He shot the other guy who was still armed first, then he put a hole in the guy he stole the gun from, faster than they could _hail_ anything more. The short guy threw himself on the blood-soaked floor. With Brock towering over him, Shorty’s lips were too trembling to make a word.

“Fuck HYDRA. I’m not answering to you. I’m not answering to anyone.” Brock placed the gun hole to Shorty’s forehead and snapped his finger.

Brock looked at the handiwork he had made. His chest was pumping up and down. He felt the surge of adrenaline rushing through his body.

He had left HYDRA for good.

Brock sucked in the air of freedom along with a pang of hopelessness. He heard footsteps and yelling, but he couldn’t think of any places he could go.

 

_If I had a magic mirror,_

_I would ask Mirror,_

_What life without you could bring,_

_I would sit down and drink coffee,_

_Waiting for Mirror to say ‘nothing.’_

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

A Ford truck of red and white color drove on Highway 200 heading to Watford City. The pickup truck was 1994 model whose doors turned brown and flakey. The only thing special about it was a CD player that was playing country songs by Bjøro Håland.

The vehicle was passing through the middle of nowhere. The highway was lifeless, day-and-night pressed by enormous prairie grasslands of golden and North Dakota’s sky of blue. In the other words, wild and emptiness and simply dirt. The treeless grounds looked like an ocean of the earth, rising and falling with small sandy hills. The blazing rays of the sun enthusiastically spread over the concrete road and dry meadows. Even in summer, the road was never hot enough to burn. The other cars or trucks came around only when someone from the South cared to go to Watford. A few campers and hikers might come to visit North Unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park, but such travelers were very rare given that the North Unit wasn’t conveniently accessible.

 

“ _In the twilight glow, I see them,_

_Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain,_

_When we kissed goodbye and parted,_

_I knew we’d never meet again.”_

 

Håland was singing ‘Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain’.

Brock was behind the wheel. He was wearing a denim shirt, a pair of jeans, and work boots which weren’t his. The clothes reeked of a closet. The bleached pants were a bit too short and the rolled up sleeves hugged his arms too tightly. The boots were worn out. The brown leather was distressed and cracked. Most of his disfigured face was hidden underneath sunglasses and a patchy beard. He had a good reason to hide his frightening face, but he had to cut his hair short just like when he worked for S.T.R.I.K.E. team otherwise he couldn’t stand himself.

 

“ _Love is like a dyin’ ember,_

_Only memories remain,_

_Through the ages, I’ll remember,_

_Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain.”_

 

Brock sang along. He couldn’t believe it himself that there would come the day he sang a country love song.

A teenage girl was sitting beside him. Ester Britt was sixteen years old. She had an oval face and sharp blue eyes, pretty in her tomboy overall and a bob haircut. In the backseat were her younger brother, Josef, and a Jack Russell Terrier called Diva. The fourteen-year-old looked exactly like his sister, blessed with angry blue eyes, delicate red cheeks, and thin lips, except that his body and blond hair were shorter. The other difference was that Josef was able to speak. Ester was a deaf-mute.

The children had found Brock lying unconsciously on a bank of Little Missouri River not far away from their walking route six months ago. They dragged him home.

Three days later, Brock woke up just to find out that the Witch Bitch had sent him straightly from Lagos to nowhere. The frustrated feeling of disappointment and embarrassment slipped into him as his eyes adjusted to the new surrounding. Wooden walls, dusty ceiling and cobwebs.

If he was alive, he bet Cap was too.

Goddammit.

His failure was rewarded by bruises, a dislocated shoulder, a broken leg, and the worst headache he wished he had been blown into pieces by the explosion. Brock moaned in pain. Two pairs of blue eyes stared at him warily. But eventually, Diva’s whining influenced the kids to do something about him. Anything. Brock was in a very bad shape he couldn’t remember what was fed to him first, meals or pills, or cheap whiskey to relieve the pain.

Ester and Josef had once lived with their grandfather. They were Norwegian Dakotans born in McKenzie County, North Dakota. They owned a chicken ranch near the Little Mo just beyond the border of Theodore Roosevelt National Park. The wooden one-story ranch house standing on the top of a small hill was ragged and hoary. Despite calling the place a ranch, they had only one chicken coop and a hen house as small as a baby toy house. The coop was patched all over, and the roof was falling apart it could be torn down by light wind.

The old house was surrounded at the foot of the hill by an equally antique wooden fence. Despite the aged property, the place wasn’t lack of the beauty of Mother Nature. Herbs and shrubs carpeted the slope of the hill from the top to the bottom. Birds always came to play and eat. Two pear trees grew at the front of the ranch house. The trees furnished the house with splendid white color when they blossomed. The serene scene of the sunset over the river and Badlands was a grand opening to the nightfall, when the sky became a paradise endowed with starlight.

Sadly, the old man had passed away in the freezing rain of sorrowful winter. The kids were on their own. Although Ester could read, she wasn’t enrolled in school because of her disability. She took over her grandpa’s chicken ranch and continued the egg business. She drove Josef to school in Watford every morning and drove back home to take care of the ranch.

Josef was very protective of Ester. The boy wanted to throw Brock out at first as he was afraid that this stranger would harm his handicapped sister. Josef even skipped school for a few weeks to stay home so that Ester wouldn’t be left alone with Brock. The boy warned Ester not to touch nor go near Brock. He told her to avoid Brock at all costs. Because of that, Josef had to help Brock to go to the bathroom and serve him food. The sulking face of the boy was priceless.

Time proved everything. Slowly, the children took him in.

Even though Brock couldn’t move around well, he helped Ester clean the hen house and collect eggs every morning. He drove to the city with her to deliver the eggs. Josef and Brock built a new coop for the chickens. In his free time, he learned sign language from the book Josef had given him and that seemed to make Ester very happy.

Brock’s leg was healed after two months but the kids didn’t kick him out. Brock didn’t have any places to go either. The Britts Ranch was the safest place to stay off the grid. There was no one around, no visitors, no wireless connection. The Britts didn’t even have a television. He asked Ester and Josef if he could stay at the ranch. They looked at him like he was crazy. The kids nodded and went on with their chores like nothing had happened.

They had never asked him about the scars.

 

 

Brock drove into Watford City. The Britts Ranch was very quiet. The city was just slightly better. Houses and stores had great distance from one another, separated by empty fields. He turned the truck into South Park Plaza and pulled up in front of Home Economy and Cash Wise Foods where Ester always shopped for groceries.

Brock handed Ester some money. The girl took it without hesitation. She had hesitated before but not anymore. She knew now that he had money, in his bank account that couldn’t be traced.

Brock had offered to pay for rent and food. He knew he shouldn’t offer anything else because so much cash called for unfavorable attention, and Ester would feel pathetic if she relied on Brock to support her little brother. For this hard-working girl, giving too much could be an insult, even though Brock so much wanted to provide for them.

The Britts didn’t have enough money. Brock felt real pain every time he saw Ester and Josef wearing their grandfather’s hand-me-down shirts and pairs of loose jeans dug out of a secondhand shop.

But all he could do, that wouldn’t make Ester feel bad, were building chicken coops and buying them sweets sometimes.

Brock clenched his right hand into a fist twice, pivoted his fist against his cheek. And then he placed his right hand flat on his chest and moved it clockwise.

_Milk and apples, please._

“You can _talk_ to me, you know?” Josef teased him. The kids knew that Brock was learning sign language and he didn’t waste any chances to practice.

Ester smiled. She made an okay sign then beckoned her brother to follow her out. Brock and Diva waited in the truck. The dog whined for attention, so he allowed her to climb into his lap for a caress.

Brock looked at the front window of Home Economy. There were a television and a stereo set. On the television was a news report. He didn’t hear the reporter’s voice as the telly was too far. Brock saw figures in black T-shirts and khaki pants line in a military fashion. They held both of their fists high.

Brock dropped Diva on the backseat despite her protest and got out of the truck. He rushed to the front window at the same time that the young men on the screen shouted two words.

Two words Brock knew better than anyone else.

Letters were shown on the screen.

‘They are recruiting! Is this the new era of HYDRA?’

The new HYDRA that didn’t hide in the shadow.

A middle-aged man walked out of Home Economy holding a new shovel. He stopped at the front window to watch the news and turned to look at Brock’s worried face with curiosity.

“HYDRA, huh? I once googled them on the internet. Interesting.” He ended his speech with a grin.

The man then walked away, whistling, feeling real pleased with his new shovel.

Brock hurried back to the red truck.

The event in the news report had happened at some great distance from here. No one would know. No one would come. No one would look into this unnoticeable place to hunt him down. If people of Watford thought HYDRA wasn’t their problem, he as well should believe that.

But his breath became heavy.

And his sweat was getting cold.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

In the past decade, Bucky’s hands had been defiled only with human blood. It felt weird to use the hands to hold a book. To seize a glass of milk. To pick up a slice of Pepperoni pizza.

T’Challa had bought him a piano and a guitar despite Bucky saying that he couldn’t play both. The King told him that he should use his new hand and move the fingers as frequently as possible. His Highness had also given him a pistol with no ammo to practice. Bucky hadn’t touched it since. He wasn’t allowed any other lethal weapons for the safety of his own self.

Bucky was having lunch in his bed among a mound of everything given by King of Wakanda. He put the last piece of pizza in his mouth, licked his fingers and wiped them on his sweatpants. Boredom was consorting with him. A heap of books the chief security, a Dora Milaje named Aneka, had lent him stood on the bedstand. She generously brought different types of book. Fiction, science, biographies, journals, spirituality. One book stood out. Bucky rolled over and picked it up from the pile. It was a children picture book with pretty illustrations and heartwarming coloring. On the cover was a little girl looking at an empty armchair. The book’s title was ‘I Miss You: A First Look at Death’.

‘Every day someone is born and every day someone dies,’ The book stated. ‘Death is a natural part of life.’

It was written for kids that were grieving the loss of their loved ones. No one could prevent death nor roll back time. We all returned to ashes. The author taught children how to cope with the loss. To deal with thinking about things they could have done with or for the deceased ones before they were left behind. ‘You may feel very lonely’, the book said. Yes, loneliness was a bitch. Bitches were hard to get rid of. But lives with that bitch must move on.

His had been moving on for seventy fucking years since he lost himself.

‘As time goes on, you will realize that no one is completely gone as long as you can remember the one you love.’

That was the problem.

He couldn’t remember. Not with HYDRA bastards repeatedly flubbing his head. He couldn’t remember his loved ones. Not even himself. Bucky smirked bitterly. All that he could clearly remember was the list of people he had killed. People who damned him. His decade-old memory was starting to come back but still…

The loss is the loss.

He could no longer have those seventy years. A chance to live, a chance to love, to get married, to settle down and have children like normal people did, were all gone. For seventy years, he had been getting in and out of the ice, in and out of madness, occasionally on the verge of peaceful death, but always thrown back to the war-ridden pitiful life. Preserved like goddamn food. For lonely seventy years, he had been Winter Soldier, writing a history that wasn’t really his.

Steve had told him once that everyone they knew had died. Family and friends. Everyone.

‘Except us.’ Steve smiled. ‘I’m glad I found you.’

Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell his friend that he wasn’t glad and he would choose death over immortality. He would have begged to be put to death if he hadn’t been a zombie that didn’t know how to beg. His withered heart didn’t yearn for anything promised by this crazy world anymore. He didn’t have tomorrow to wait for.

Steve wanted him to fight. For what?

Fighting was fine as long as it was done for the people that mattered.

It might be a selfish thing to say to Steve, but Bucky’s days of glory had passed away since the very moment he fell from the train. For Bucky, nothing longer mattered. He didn’t want to fight for the world to which he didn’t belong.

He missed those days.

The good days he might have forgotten. If those days ever existed.

He wanted to meet that person. It was frustrating because he didn’t understand why.

_Why did Rumlow have to die?_

Bucky heard a knock on the door followed by the chief security’s voice.

With Bucky’s permission, T’Challa came into the room with his female personal bodyguard. The King looked at the book in Bucky’s hands and flashed his white teeth.

“Your Highness.” Bucky bowed his head slightly. The gesture was a mere formality since he couldn’t ‘hey dude’ T’Challa, especially when a Dora Milaje was here. She would rip his throat out. Although the King once said that He didn’t mind Bucky calling Him by name, Bucky had never called Him by name. They stayed Your Highness and Mr. Barnes.

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Barnes?” T’Challa asked.

“The same as yesterday I guess.” Bucky shrugged.

“Does the arm serve you well?”

The said arm made of Wakandan Vibranium-iron alloy was glinting proudly under the lamp’s light. The metal grew over his shoulder perfectly like it was his own skin. T’Challa confirmed so many times that the medical team had only installed a normal prosthetic arm. No tricks. But Bucky felt the power surge into him. He had ever felt like this only at the time he held Captain America’s shield. The shield was so strong and capable, protecting, never failed its owner as if it moved of its own free will.

“It’s good. But I haven’t tried the piano yet,” Bucky confessed sheepishly.

The King smiled. “How is your mental condition? You still have the headache?”

Bucky nodded. “But not that often.”

“Give yourself time, Mr. Barnes. It’s never easy to let go of the undesirable past.” T’Challa observed him. “Or the desired ones.”

Depression. Flashbacks. Bad dreams. Occasionally being attacked by guilt and sorrow. Doubting his value and longing to drop dead. The psychologist believed that Bucky was traumatized and was suffering from something called PTSD. Bucky couldn’t believe it. Mental problems were for humans, not this.

_This._

The King grabbed Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. No one can send you out there without your consent. You have my word.”

Bucky met His gaze and forced himself to smile. “I’ll be fine.”

T’Challa stepped back. “Aneka has something you might be interested to hear.”

Bucky lifted his brow.

“I heard you’d asked about Brock Rumlow last week,” the sexy bodyguard said with a stoic face. “What is he to you?”

“I don’t…” Bucky winced as he was trying to find the right answer. What could he give to her if he couldn’t even get the answer for himself? “I don’t know but… I keep seeing him in my dreams. Rumlow was on the floor. Blood was everywhere. It seemed like he was tortured because he’d tried to save me… or something. I’m not sure. But the guards… they laughed at my face and said Rumlow couldn’t save me.”

T’Challa and his bodyguard looked at each other. The King nodded once.

“Are you aware that he was a HYDRA agent?” The chief security asked.

“Yes. He worked for Pierce.”

“After HYDRA fell, Rumlow reappeared again as a terrorist named Crossbones.”

“I didn’t know that.” Bucky shook his head.

“Captain Rogers believes that Rumlow was killed by Wanda Maximoff, but he is still alive.”

The word took away his breath. Bucky opened his mouth but he couldn’t decide what to say first.

“He is...”

Alive.

“Our tracking system spotted him in North Dakota. In a small city called Watford. We aren’t hundred percent sure but the odds are high,” T’Challa told him.

The Dora Milaje pulled a few pictures from her suit’s pocket and handed them to Bucky. They were pictures of a man dressing like a ranch worker with a pair of sunglasses on. His face was covered by both sunglasses and a beard.

“The scars.” She pointed at the man’s upper face. “They match Crossbones’ scars in the video we had taken in Lagos. And they have the same figure and the same height.”

“His hairstyle too,” Bucky said. “It’s the same as Rumlow’s hair I saw in my dream.”

“Do you want me to check this guy up?”

Bucky looked at the other pictures. The man was in front of a store, watching TV, and then someone came to talk to him.

Bucky lifted his gaze to meet the King and asked, “can I go?”

T’Challa raised his brows. “Where do you want to go?”

“There,” he breathlessly answered. “Can I borrow a plane?”

Wonder and relish crept on T’Challa’s face.

“Mr. Barnes, do you know how to drive a jet?”

 

 

It took three minutes to find out that the truck Rumlow drove belonged to an old man named Klaus Britt, one minute for Aneka to hand Bucky the address while he was putting on a leather jacket and switching to a pair of jeans, and another minute for T’Challa to give him a jet.

Bucky landed on the bank of Little Missouri just before dark. He stepped off the jet and took in the striking sight of North Dakota’s so-called landscape. Retiring wild blue yonder with the remaining sunlight was casually draping a touch of colors on the Badlands, staining the miraculous tiered cliffs beyond Little Missouri River with reddish orange. The wind started to get cold and slightly cruel. The shining water, flowing through the rocky banks, was playing the flute song to lull miles of grassy plain and the whole world to sleep.

Prairie dog’s burrows assembled near the river, on the sandy area abounding with dry grasses and flying brown leaves. As Bucky was passing by, those cute balls raised their heads from their burrows to observe him and alerted their wards about the intruder with high-pitch calls. The short tails throbbed up and down as they barked. Mother prairie dogs hurriedly dragged her younglings into the holes for safety while some brave juveniles were cautiously coming closer to look at the human for a thrill.

A male herd of American bisons was crossing the river to the North after supper. Bucky joined them. The beasts were gigantic and stunning, with hickory brown skin and thick fur. They moved along with no hurry, grunting and sneezing at him when he blocked the way.

Bucky had been sent to many places, but nothing could compare to this land. Everywhere he had been, or had been sent to commit heinous crimes, reeked of rotten flesh, blood, and no escape. Here smelled like fresh air, sky clear of rain, and wide range of freedom. It was a heaven on earth. A sacred ground where an endless song of hope would be heard always.

If he lived here, he might be able to forget the abysmal days he had been enslaved. He wanted to forget. He wanted to forget everything.

Bucky laughed at his thought. Those bastards did give him what he wanted, didn’t they? Forgetting everything. He wanted to remember, yet he didn’t know what he wanted to remember. When Bucky closed his eyes, he saw only those days... those hours... scenes he wanted to forget. This brain in his head, it was a chunk of madness.

Bucky was soaked to the knee when he reached another side of the bank. The bisons went on their way into the wildness. Bucky headed for the expressway. He crossed the road and walked about three miles to an open grassland with small hills. The sky changed into dark blue after sunset. The horizon was painted by a thin line of flame-like color. Nocturnal animals and insects started to talk to each other. Nature’s sound became louder as the world went into the land of nod. Stars had yet to pack the sky, only Venus and Jupiter shone brightly over a ranch-style house on the top of the hill.

He climbed up the hill. The light came from the windows, but Bucky couldn’t see inside because the room was barred by a curtain. He saw a figure of a man. And suddenly, he heard a dog bark.

A small dog was standing on a wooden bent in front of the house. It had a white coat and patches of brown color covering each eye and V-shaped ear. Teeth bared, the dog hissed at Bucky twice, and then turned to bark at the door to inform its master about him, the intruder. Bucky walked to the tree in front of the house and stood behind it.

The window slowly creaked open and there came a familiar voice from the inside of the house. “Who’s there?”

Bucky’s heart skipped a beat.

The voice was rough and husky. As it had always been.

“Diva?”

The dog barked again.

“Come here, girl.”

Diva jumped down and ran toward the voice of her master. A double barreled shotgun poked from the window.

“Show yourself.”

The order sounded guarded and dangerous, but Bucky didn’t feel unnerved by it. He stepped out of the shadow obediently so that the man inside the house could see his face. Bucky slowly and silently raised his hands over his shoulders and showed his palms to assure the man in the house that he wasn’t carrying any weapons. T’Challa had given him a gun to protect himself, but Bucky wanted to come here unarmed, so he had left the gun in the jet.

Stupid move, he knew, now that the gun muzzle was pointing right to his heart.

Bucky licked his lips and asked, “do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

Hope swelled in Bucky’s chest. He waited, unable to breathe. His eyes fixed at the window as it inched open.

Rumlow was wearing an ombré gray plaid shirt with two buttons undone. His face was a mess. Red scars, which looked like blood vessels, entangled across his upper face. Thin lips and the sunken cheeks were covered by patches of dark hair here and there. Rumlow’s sharp brown eyes stared at Bucky from behind the barrel. The eyes were cold and untrusting.

“I remember you, Soldier.” Rumlow sneered at him.

“I came here unarmed.”

“You are armed, Soldier. You always be, whether or not you carry any weapons. Did HYDRA send you to kill me?”

“I’m not Winter Soldier anymore,” Bucky told him. “I’m with Captain America now.”

“You think that’s better?” The muzzle was leveled to Bucky’s face. Rumlow’s finger hugged the trigger tightly, ready to discharge the gun.

“I didn’t tell Steve about this place. I didn’t come here to do any harm.”

Bucky heard a sarcastic laugh. “Then, why? Why did you come?”

“I don’t want to make any troubles. I just...” Bucky bit his lip. His blue eyes lowered to the ground. He had been asked this same question by this man once.

Not once. Twice.

And he had come to Brock Rumlow because… The reason was on the tip of his tongue.

“Have you ever asked me the same thing before?” He met Rumlow’s gaze and asked for some hints. Rumlow gave him none.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Don’t you remember?”

Rumlow quirked his eyebrows. “Remember what?”

“Me.”

“I remember that you were Pierce’s puppet.”

“Not that.” Bucky inhaled deeply. “I went to your place. Did I really go to your place?”

Rumlow looked confused. He didn’t put the shotgun down. “I don’t recall that.”

Two faces showed up behind Rumlow’s shoulder. One was a pretty girl’s and another was an equally pretty boy’s. The children stared at Bucky and his metal hand. The kids’ bright blue eyes were sparkling with interest rather than fright.

Rumlow followed Bucky’s eyes. When he found the boy and the girl standing behind him, both of them peering outside, he scolded them. “Get down!”

“But I want to see too!” The boy protested.

“Both of you get down.”

“Come on, Uncle Brock. I don’t think he’d attack us.”

“Josef!”

The kids disappeared again. Rumlow turned his full attention back to Bucky. He grimaced. “What are you laughing at?”

Bucky then realized that he was smiling. He knew that the kids were the Britts but it was funny to see Rumlow act as if he were their old man. Bucky quickly pressed his lips together.

Rumlow eyed him from head to toe. “You know what? I must kill you so that you won’t tell your friend about this place.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Bucky said, “I promise.”

“I don’t trust you. I have many reasons to shoot you now, Soldier, other than that you’re Cap’s pal.”

“I came here to meet you.” Bucky slowly put his hands down. “Only you can explain what’s going on in my head.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bucky stopped for a moment to find the right words to explain. A minute passed. He could only come up with the truth. “I saw you in my dreams, all bloody. HYDRA said you’d tried to save me.”

Rumlow pulled a face. “I don’t remember that I did anything that stupid.”

“You must remember, unless...”

Unless Rumlow’s memory had been erased too.

“Unless the incident happened only in your fantasy.” Rumlow finished the sentence for Bucky and jerked his chin. “Go away, Grandpa, or I’ll shoot.”

Rumlow held the shotgun high, but he didn’t intend to shoot. Bucky saw that Rumlow’s eyes had already lost the fury. This man wasn’t going to pull the trigger.

And the nickname.

Bucky knew that nickname.

He had been called by that name. By this very person.

Rumlow seemed to realize what he’d just said too. His expression changed from irritation to surprise. And from surprise to perplexity.

HYDRA had erased Rumlow’s memory too. That was why Rumlow didn’t remember what Bucky saw in his dreams.

“Why not?” Bucky stepped closer to the gunpoint. “If you have many reasons to shoot me, why don’t you shoot me now?”

Rumlow instead retreated. “Get. Lost.” He bit his jaw and put a hand on his forehead. Another hand moved the shotgun around in a shooing manner. “Go away.”

“101 Broadway, Fargo. Top floor,” Bucky told Rumlow, “If you change your mind and decide to shoot me, go find me there.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

One of Brock daily tasks was picking Josef up after school. Every day, he drove into Watford to wait for the boy in front of Watford City High School. He pulled up on the bank of the road opposite to the school’s bricked wall, listening to country songs, watching children roll out, expecting Josef to emerge from the school’s entrance and pop into the red truck very soon. Brock had never waited more than ten minutes because Josef hated school and was always ready to go home.

Today wasn’t an exception. Brock helped Ester with chores in the afternoon, and later, he drove to the city. He arrived at the school’s entrance right after the school bell rang. There weren’t any other cars stopping on the road, except a pink ice-cream van on the corner of the street near CrossPoint Church, so he had the clear view of students walking out. The kids were full of energy even after classes. They were either teasing their friends, chatting, playing ball, or carelessly crossing the street. Three boys in their puberty were yelling loudly to attract two pretty girls who were passing by.

The CD player was again playing ‘Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain’.

 

“ _In the twilight glow, I see them,_

_Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain,_

_When we kissed goodbye and parted,_

_I knew we’d never meet again.”_

 

Blue eyes.

Dangling in the darkness, they looked like two blue moons on the starry sky.

The eyes had been haunting him since the night Winter Soldier came to the ranch. Haunting. Begging.

‘Don’t you remember?’

The blue eyes said please. Please remember. Please search in your heart.

What was there?

Was something important even there? In his shallow heart?

Brock was sure that his bloody yesterdays had nothing to do with that unnerving killing machine. He had zero memory about them involving with each other. Both of them had worked for HYDRA, yes, but, no, they had never shared a word. Nonetheless, Brock’s head hurt every time he tried to think about the past. He would feel as if he were punched in the face if his brain attempted to bring up Winter Soldier.

Put the mystery aside, Brock had a worse problem to deal with. Brock might be captured by one of U.S.’s surveillance cameras. If Winter Soldier, a decade-year-old grandpa, could find him in this isolated area of North Dakota, he bet the other guys could too. Steve Rogers, cops, or HYDRA, all the good men who wanted a piece of him, could find him in a blink of an eye.

He should leave.

Not because he was afraid to get caught or killed. He was afraid that harm would come to Ester and Josef. But he still hadn’t the heart to tell the kids that he had to go away. Brock knew in his heart that he wanted to stay. He didn’t want to leave the only place he ever felt belong to.

The school’s entrance that had been packed with going-home kids now had a room. Only a few students came out of the gate. Brock looked at his wristwatch. Josef was worryingly late.

Brock had a prepaid cell phone bought from Verizon but the Britts didn’t own any, not even an old model of Sony Ericsson. Brock had offered to get them prepaid cell phones too when he purchased his but Josef had said he didn’t want any. Josef was considerate of Ester’s feelings. His sister couldn’t use a cell phone, so the little brother refused to have one too. There was no connection at the ranch, so the cell phones were useless anyway.

Brock shouldn’t have agreed to that. He should have suggested many what-ifs like ‘what if you were late for supper and I couldn’t find you?’ There was no way Brock could get a hold of Josef except Brock got off the truck and went from classroom to classroom to find him. Or, he could ask Josef’s teacher where the kid might be.

What is the name of Josef’s teacher again? Someone Jones?

Brock couldn’t remember the name, but Ester might remember it or at least had written it somewhere.

Lately, Brock had taught Ester to communicate via short message so he could convince the kids to buy cell phones later. He lent her his cell phone for practices. She could spell the teacher’s name for him. But Ester didn’t have any cell phones now, so he couldn’t send his question to her and she couldn’t send back the answer.

Fuck.

Brock couldn’t believe that he could get stuck in the middle of the street, not knowing how to contact two teenagers even though they were in the era that worldwide connectivity had become the norm.

Suddenly, Brock heard a knock. He looked at the truck’s window. A man in a black muscle shirt was pointing a handgun at him.

“Get out of the truck,” the man opened the door and ordered. “Hold your hands in the air.”

Brock looked at the rear-view mirror. There was a black car stopping behind his truck. There were a driver and another man who was fully armed. The man was also pointing a gun at him. Fat chance these guys were cops, and they weren’t the Avengers either, so Brock was left with only one possible answer, HYDRA.

There was nowhere to run and it was too late to pick up his gun in the glove box.

Brock had no choice but to step out of the truck.

“Where’s the boy?” Brock asked.

“Shut up and get in the car.”

He expected to find Josef in the back seat but the boy wasn’t there.

The men in muscle shirts brought Brock back to the Britts ranch. He was led into the living room and found Ester kneeling on the floor, a rifle to her head. The girl wasn’t tied up or hurt. A huge guy who looked like King Kong was holding the rifle. Ester’s face was pale and her eyes were red from crying.

Diva was locked up in a cupboard. She barked loudly when she smelled Brock. Another guy who stood near the cupboard kicked the cupboard’s door freaking Diva out. She whimpered and became silent.

Brock rolled his finger into a fist with his thumb up, quickly holding the fist at chin level. And then, he raised his two hands and showed his palm. He moved them in a circle while shaking his head a few times to tell Ester not to worry.

Another man was sitting cross-legged on the sofa. This guy was tall and skinny. His long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail revealing his wide forehead. He was wearing a gray suit, the same color as his irides. His eyes and nose were small. His lips were full. He would be pretty if he had eyebrows. The guy watched Brock using sign language with admiration.

“Good evening, Mr. Rumlow.” The man smiled. His voice was high-pitched and very annoying. “Should I call you Crossbones?”

The man got on his two feet and offered his hand but Brock didn’t shake it. The man ignored him, sat down, and continued with a sing-song manner.

“I am Carl. Do you want to know who sent me?”

“HYDRA?”

“You figured right.” Carl clapped his hands three times and put his palms together.

“What do you want? Where is Josef?”

“I can’t tell you where Josef is. But I can tell you what we want.” Carl played with his ponytail, curling his hair with his long finger. “We want to recruit you. Again. You saw on the TV, right? We are coming back. We are recruiting!”

“After all the ruckus I made, HYDRA still wants me back?” Brock had killed everyone on the day he woke up and found out that he was captured by HYDRA. He stomped on the corpses and left.

Carl smiled. “You’re still worth a try.”

“Where is Josef?” Brock asked again. His eyes shone with impatience.

“That boy is safe as long as you obey,” Carl answered. “This pretty little lady too, will be safe, if you,” he lifted his finger melodramatically, “obey.”

Brock bit his jaw.

“Now, you follow these gentlemen back to the car.” Carl stood up. He made a shooing manner.

A heavy hand grabbed Brock’s right arm pulling him back toward the front door but Brock resisted. He looked at Ester who was still sitting on the floor. She was shaking now. “What about the girl? Will you let her go?”

“Oh, my sweet Crossbones! Don’t worry about this girl. She stays here. My men will look after her.”

“No way,” Brock shot back. “I’m taking her with me.”

“Unfortunately, I am the one who decides.”

“You could take her to her brother.”

“Do I look stupid to you, hero?” Carl said. “If you came back to free this girl, the boy dies.” The man with no eyebrows took a glance at his expensive wristwatch. “OMG. If we don’t head out now, we’d be late for the meeting. Everyone knows I hate being late.”

“I’m taking the girl with me.” Brock insisted.

“No, you won’t. Did you ever listen to me?!” Carl snapped. He sounded annoyed now. “She will stay here or you will carry her corpse with you. Choose one.”

Brock took a deep breath.

He should have left.

Because he was selfish. Because he wanted to be here, Ester and Josef were in danger. Because of him, these kids suffered.

“Hurry up!” Carl was starting to get hysterical.

Brock didn’t care. Despite himself, he made a threat to the two guards that would be left at the ranch. “If you do anything to this girl, you are dead man.”

Before he followed Carl outside, Brock lifted his right fist to his chest and rotating it clockwise.

An apology to Ester.

The girl’s face went paler. A drop of tear went down her cheek.

Brock put his thumb under his chin. He pointed his two index fingers under his eyes and moved them down a couple times.

_Don’t cry._

He pointed himself, stretched his arm using the same hand and abruptly pulled his hand back to his chest.

_I’ll be right back._

He promised.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky took up a sofa in a meeting room. T’Challa and his chief security were talking quietly at the edge of a U-shaped conference table, two coffee mugs by their sides. Bucky had been served a glass of blueberry milk and a square wooden plate occupied by brain foods, fresh salmon rolled up nice and tight in slight avocados topped with salmon roe. He was also given a pair of wooden chopsticks which he was directed by the doctor to use to pick the salmon rolls up.

The doctor didn’t care that he was dextral. How the hell could he use chopsticks with his left prosthetic arm?

Bucky pulled a salmon roll into the grasp of the chopsticks and pinched it. The roll was cut by a half.

God, he hated chopsticks.

It was a part of getting used to your new organ shit and a part of eating to boost your brainpower shit Bucky should appreciate.

It was a part of improving your mental health shit too.

The doctor was worriedly treating his nightmares and insomnia. Because Bucky was unresponsive to consulting, his common answer was ‘I can’t remember,’ and he refused hypnotherapy at all cost, they switched to nutritional treatments. The doctor was keeping tabs on his nutrient levels and controlling his nutrition intake, especially the magnesium.

Bucky was fed daily with leafy greens, dark chocolate, avocados, pumpkin seeds and the other magnesium rich foods. Magnesium was studied and believed that it could fight muscle spasms and irregular heartbeats and slowed down neuronal activities in the brain. Magnesium could put a human’s body to rest by reducing all the interruptions that caused anxiety and sleeplessness.

It also made him see more and more vivid dreams.

Maybe it was the avocados or dark chocolate milkshake he’d consumed that took his hands and walked him into the deepest night. They led him back to the HYDRA’s base, where his memory had been last erased.

 

 

“He… He’s unstable,” a HYDRA scientist told Pierce, “erratic.”

Bucky was sitting in the electroshock chair when Pierce came into the room with his bodyguards. Pierce took off his reading glasses and immediately wanted the mission report. Bucky didn’t give him what he wanted. Bucky’s eyes mirrored people, and nothing. His eyes were open but he wasn’t really looking. He wasn’t listening. His mind leaped back to the bridge where he had met Steve. He had been called by his real name ‘Bucky’. He was confused.

Pierce summoned him back by a slap across the face.

When Bucky asked who Steve was, Pierce’s eyes slid as he was thinking about how to respond to the question. The old fox told Bucky that Steve was just a guy Bucky had met during a mission.

Pierce idealized him with a preacher’s tone, defining him with the false value that he was doing good deeds to the world. He might be, who knew. If there wasn’t HYDRA, there would still be other assholes. Maybe this world should have been all demolished, HYDRA and non-HYDRA alike. Maybe he should have put the end to it.

“But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine,” Bucky heard Pierce say, “and HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Pierce spoke as if Bucky were his hopeless son. A stupid, selfish boy who never did anything right.

Miserable crawled up Bucky’s chest. He forced himself not to throw it up to Pierce’s face. He swallowed the horrible feeling down.

 _What’s in it for me?_ Bucky thought.

He was expected to give the world freedom. He was chosen to make a big change, but what would the freedom and the change really mean, for him, who was right then denied the right to ask just one simple question?

“Who was he?”

_Who am I?_

Bucky persisted and kept saying that he knew Steve. He knew.

He knew that Pierce was a lying piece of shit.

At the end of the dream, he didn’t know anymore.

Tears crept up when he heard Pierce order the scientists to prep him. To rebuild him. His personhood was bad and dishonorable. Greatly unworthy. Bucky must be rejected. He must be removed.

Rumlow was there.

Bucky didn’t notice then that Rumlow’s eyes were wide with pity and disbelief.

 

 

“What are you eating, buddy?” A playful tone came from Bucky’s right. He looked up and found Sam Wilson smiling at him.

“Alaskan something,” Bucky said somberly. “You want to try some?”

Sam seated himself next to Bucky and extended his hand. Bucky moved the plate away from Sam and gave him the chopsticks instead. “You have to use the chopsticks.”

Sam looked at the mess on the wooden plate and grinned broadly. He took the chopsticks from Bucky, picked a salmon roll up, and threw it in his mouth smoothly. And then, the Falcon’s grin got wider.

Bucky grimaced. Now, he hated Sam Wilson as much as the chopsticks.

“Hey, are you picking on my friend?” Steve walked into the meeting room. He lightheartedly teased Sam. “Am I seeing it right? You are teasing my man here?”

“No, I am _teaching_ him how to use chopsticks. The only thing I can do more beautifully than you guys.” Sam punched Steve’s extended fist.

Wanda Maximoff, another ex-Avengers poured in and closed the door behind her back. Steve sat next to her at the conference table opposite to the King and his female bodyguard. Bucky and Sam stayed where they had been. Bucky didn’t put his food down. He threw away the chopsticks and ate with his metal hand instead. Fuck the therapy.

They assembled here to watch the broadcast. There was news on the television showing a park packed with young people. The park was right there next to the island where Triskelion had once stood proudly. There was a small stage in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by big men in black outfits. A bald man in an expensive suit was giving a speech. He was the same man Bucky saw in the recruiting video, talking crap about cleaning up the world. To solve human overpopulation. _Not_ by the natural selection.

“Only the good and the honest are suitable to keep the world rolling. The bad guys must cease to live. It doesn’t matter whether they were rich or poor. They, these sinners, are damned and these damned creatures are threats to the earth. Threats to all of you. To the ones you love. They are criminals and terrorists. They are uneducated. They are filthy. They hurt people. They do nothing valuable, yet their lives consume too many resources. Even their breath pollutes the air.”

Sadly, the audiences looked enthusiastic.

“HYDRA will save the world. We’ve tried. Some of you might have heard about Project Insight that was stopped by the government about a year ago. But the government might not tell you what it was for. Oh, no. They didn’t explain why we had to get those helicarriers into the air. To protect you. To get rid of the bad guys. To attack the terrorists that were roaming our country! They stopped Project Insight because they were bad. They were afraid that they would be the one that was removed.”

“We,” the bald man pressed his palm on his chest, “are not the bad guy. The government, S.H.I.E.L.D., and the Avengers are. Especially the Avengers. They think they are better than you. Stronger! Richer! Wiser! They think they are supreme power. But look, what’s left of them now? Their true faces were revealed. They didn’t protect us. They just created chaos. They fought each other and were now disbanded. Some are still on the run. They deserve that. Don’t you think they deserve that?”

The crowd cheered.

“We, HYDRA, were doomed. We stumbled. We lost the battle over the power-hungry superheroes,” The bald continued, “but we won’t give up. We still have faith that we could make this world a better, safer place. So, we’ve come back. We’ll start over.

“We will start with bringing order and justice to this world. We will start with bringing the criminals back to justice. We will find the Avengers. We will find the witch, Wanda Maximoff whose abnormal power has murdered so many people. And Captain America, the shameless man who killed people to break his deadly subordinates out of the prison. He also took with him the Winter Soldier, a terrorist, who is his friend! They are running free right now. We want your help, brothers and sisters. We need your help!”

The bald man held a little piece of paper up. “Just open your eyes and ears. If you know Captain America’s whereabouts, please be a good Samaritan and call this number.”

He spoke the number.

“And you can join us. Become HYDRA. Because we are the people. We care about the people. We’ll help you get through.”

“They want you.” T’Challa looked at Steve.

“Yes, this guy is pouring a shitload of propaganda shit but his purpose is urging people to find you.” Sam agreed. “He mentioned Wanda and Bucky but he painted you worst. He focused on you.”

Steve made a sour face. “But why?”

“I think they want Miss Maximoff and Mr. Barnes back because he didn’t mention the others, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Barton, nor Mr. Lang,” T’Challa said. “If they found Mr. Rogers, they’d get these two. ”

“I don’t buy it.” Steve crossed his arms across his chest. “I don’t think these guys are HYDRA.”

The other figure came into the range of the video camera. It walked to the stage to lead the bald man through the cheering crowd to a black van. The figure wore a helmet and a black metal war suit with an X crossing over its chest.

“Is that Rumlow?” Steve winced.

“Impossible,” Wanda muttered, “I thought he was dead. I thought I killed him.”

“Might be another guy with the same sense of fashion,” Sam said.

Bucky kept his mouth shut. The King and the Dora Milaje both turned to look at him. Luckily, the others were concentrating on the monitor, so they didn’t notice.

_Please, don’t tell them._

Bucky begged T’Challa with his eyes.

He had told T’Challa and the chief security about Rumlow. He had told them that Rumlow was now busy being a father figure to two pretty children in North Dakota. Bucky vouched for Rumlow that he wasn’t a threat. This guy in the news couldn’t be Rumlow. Couldn’t be.

The man in the war suit closed the van’s door. He opened the front door of the vehicle. Before he climbed up, he took the helmet off and looked right back at the camera.

And that was Brock Rumlow.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“You’ve known me your whole life.”

The steel load-bearing column had been lifted and the Winter Soldier had been freed. Only the body. The mind, though, was still captured by the dark. The lonely soul was wandering in a strange dreary place covered by dirt and ashes.

There were calls. There were faces. Most of them were Bucky’s victims. Sad eyes followed his back and the rotten lips repeatedly cursed behind it.

Narrow paths led to hellfire. Only one path pointed to salvation. But there were two black clouds hanging in the air, blocking the way. One was the order. Another was the hope. They grew bigger and bigger to push him back to the starting point. The mission.

Pierce had promised that this would be his last mission, that he would finally be freed from seven decades of incarceration and slavery.

It only took a few steps. It only took another broken neck. To be truly free.

But.

The messed up mind was stuck in a dilemma where killing his target and abandoning the mission were equally not a good idea. He crawled out from under the steel column. Winter Soldier pushed his knees to bring himself up to the standing position and glanced at his target.

Winter Soldier felt respect toward his target for what the target had done. If this man hadn’t risked his own life to save him, Winter Soldier would have fallen and drowned with everything.

Who the hell would help an unlucky enemy trapped amidst an exploding helicarrier? Who the hell cared?

This fool.

“You know me,” declared the man.

Winter Soldier believed the man but he doubted it. He was accepting the fact that they were friends, they might be, they might have been, and then he felt like denying it.

He wanted to yell. To scream. Suddenly, he was surrounded by chaos. Overpowered by confused rage. The mind roared with fury while the heart was violently beating inside his chest.

‘ _You neglect this mission.’_

His own voice sounded like Karpov’s.

“No, I don’t!”

Winter Soldier never failed a mission. He threw a punch and it landed on the target’s face.

“Bucky,” he was called again. “You’ve known me your whole life.”

He threw another punch. Both of them fell on the floor.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” said the man.

‘ _No, it isn’t.’_

Now, it was Pierce’s turn to occupy his head.

‘ _Your name is HYDRA’s fag.’_

‘ _If you don’t do your part, fag, I can’t do mine.’_

“Shut up!”

Winter Soldier shrieked and struck. For some reasons, the idiot, who was his target, dropped the shield, refusing to fight. Good, Winter Soldier thought. He was going to finish the task. He was aiming for a kill. Friends, my ass. The guy was his mission. Only a mission.

_I’m sorry. Please die._

The target took all the punches, the anger, the fear, and seventy years of sin Winter Soldier had committed. He was lying on the edge of the falling helicarrier. He was panting hurtfully. His handsome face was a bloody mess, yet the brave man was still looking for his friend—his Bucky— with sincere eyes.

_Where are you, Bucky?_

“I’m with you to the end of the line.”

 

 

Where was Bucky now?

Bucky was again in the wild, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night.

In North Dakota.

 

 

Steve was enraged after watching the clip. Wanda, too, was very furious. If that was the real Brock Rumlow on the screen, it meant the pair hadn’t successfully eliminated Crossbones. It meant people in Lagos had died for literally nothing. Except they had been massacred so that the all-mighty Captain America could live. Steve wanted to catch Rumlow, and he wanted to do it ASAP. Bucky kept his mouth shut while the Captain was passing orders. Thankfully, T’Challa and Aneka didn’t say anything, too.

After Steve and the other ex-Avengers had gone home, Bucky asked T’Challa for a permission to use the jet. He didn’t have to tell the King what he would do or where he would go. The King knew.

Bucky was dressing up when T’Challa came to meet him in his bedroom. A male servant came with Him. The servant mildly dropped a leather suitcase in Bucky’s bed and went back to wait outside. His Highness opened the suitcase to reveal four weapons, three guns and a combat knife.

“Why didn’t you tell Steve about Rumlow?” Throwing a sleeveless muscle shirt over his head, Bucky asked the King.

T’Challa was picking up a sub-machine gun when He answered. “Brock Rumlow isn’t a big threat to me as he is a nemesis to Captain Rogers. Mr. Barnes, not only a knife, you have to take these weapons.”

Bucky looked at the luggage and winced with distaste. Just looking at the weapons made his head hurt. He just realized how much he was fed up by wars and terrorism.

Bucky put on a lightweight tactical vest and fingerless gloves. T’Challa passed him the combat knife. He obediently stuffed it into the vest but couldn’t bring himself to touch the guns.

“Last time he didn’t shoot you but there’s no guarantee that he won’t tonight. And he might have visitors.” T’Challa handed the gun to him. “Take it or I won’t let you go.”

The ex-soldier geared up in a black battle suit, equipped with a glock in his hand, a compact pistol in a thigh holster, and a sub-machine gun on the back of his bulletproof vest. The combat boots left heavy footprints on the sand as he jumped off the jet and started a long walk. He was going to witness with his own eyes, that Brock Rumlow really had again stepped on the wrongful path. That Rumlow was again kissing HYDRA’s ass.

Innocent until proven guilty.

For the ex-HYDRA double agent, ‘innocent’ was hardly the right choice of word.

What Rumlow had done was, not by a long sight, innocent. He had involved in many unholy actions for the sake of the goddamn organization, including kidnappings and assassinations. As Crossbones, he continued to spread damages to societies and leave trails of destruction everywhere he had been to. He’d tried to kill Steve, and, instead, his desperate revenge had cost many lives.

Brock Rumlow wasn’t an angel. But Bucky believed that Rumlow wasn’t a monster either.

Bucky kept Rumlow a secret from Steve. He was protecting the guy who once had been intent to kill his friend. He felt a sharp pain of shame cutting through his heart as he was breathing in the refreshing air of North Dakota.

Steve was always loyal to Bucky. The guy was funny, caring, downright, and hot-headed but in a rightful way. Steve deserved respect and honesty. Steve deserved better than a disloyal friend.

Bucky would definitely risk his life for Steve Rogers. He would do whatever it took. But he owned Rumlow one, too, although Bucky wasn’t quite sure about why Rumlow was so important to him. The dreams and his gut feeling told him so.

 

 

Angry rain clouds crowded the orange sky at sunset, promising a late night rainstorm. Bucky felt tight and disgusted as he was carefully climbing the hill to the Britts’ ranch house. The air was thick, heavy, and smelled like mud. The thick air slowly crept around the hill like a giant snail leaving the mucilage at everything it touched. The silence was painted across the landscape. All beings knew a big storm would come, and, fearfully, they were waiting for it to strike.

As the old property was coming into sight, Bucky heard the dog bark. The sound was sharp and low-pitched. He saw a silver Volvo and the Ford truck, which he’d seen the last time he’d come here, parked outside the ranch house. No one was around. He kept his head down when he drifted toward the house.

The dog barked non-stop until someone yelled and kicked a wooden door, it yelped and became quiet. But when Bucky started to move closer to the house. The barking began again.

Bucky leaned his back against the wall near the window. He heard a man curse, “damn it,” followed by a sound of bullets hitting a wooden bar, probably a cupboard. The barking stopped. The sound was replaced by a cry of a girl.

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll put a bullet into your head like I did to your dog!”

Bucky cast a glance inside the house. He saw two men standing in front of the ruined cupboard. One in a black T-shirt was shorter than the other who was half-naked. Blood flew through the space under the cupboard door. The girl, Ester Britt, was kneeling helplessly, one hand flat on the floor, the other gripped her shirt. The girl’s shirt had been torn and the buttons had popped off. Her bottom was covered by only blue panties. She took a breath sharply. Her blond hair was damp with sweat. The sweet face was soaked with tears and fright.

The bigger man parted his legs and leaned down to pick the girl up by her collar. Ester Britt squeezed the front of her shirt tightly with all her might. The man dropped her on the dining table and loomed over her. He pulled her shirt apart and leered at her young fresh. The girl tried to break free but the man used his right hand to pin her wrists to the table. He grabbed her breast flicking the tip of her nipple with his finger. Ester cried aloud but that only made the rapist feel more aroused.

“It… It’s not a good idea, Matt,” the smaller guy warned his co-worker with a hoarse, panic voice. “If Crossbones found out...”

“They won’t let him come back, you fool. They use him and then they’ll kill him,” Matt said. His free hand traveled down to Ester’s below. He pressed his thumb into her private part. The girl shrieked and moved her hip away.

“But...”

“If you ain’t into girls, you can go fuck yourself, Richmond.” Matt spread Ester’s legs apart with his hard body. “You’re gonna like it, bitch. See? You’re already wet.”

Ester kicked her legs.

Matt slapped her across the face.

Bucky shot Matt in his head.

The next target was Richmond. The first bullet ripped through his shoulder. The second bullet went straight to his heart.

Two bodies hit the floor and the room went silent.

Bucky pulled the window open and climbed inside. He moved closer to the dining table. His eyes swept across the room. No yelling. No footsteps. Bucky didn’t lower his weapon.

“Remember me?” He asked the girl.

Ester didn’t answer. She didn’t even look up. Her wide eyes absorbed the mess on the floor in shock. Two corpses and a blood pool. Another little corpse was in the cupboard. The dog’s. Bucky didn’t dare open the cupboard.

“Who’s these guys?” Bucky asked again. Ester didn’t say a word. He was starting to get it that the girl was deaf-mute. The frightened girl closed her legs and pushed her knees up. She wept painfully. Motherfuckers. He felt like killing these motherfuckers again and again until they were nothing but two blood clots.

Bucky touched Ester’s shaking shoulder and then her hair. She looked up at him, lips trembling as if trying to keep the hurtful cries inside. Bucky scooped Ester up into his arms and carried her down the hall to a bedroom. It looked like a girl bedroom, decorated with a flower patterned curtain and a pink mattress.

He placed her on the bed. Ester sobbed quietly. Bucky covered her body with a blanket.

Bucky cursed under his breath. He felt so weak. All he could do now was finding the girl clean clothes. He walked to the dresser and randomly picked a shirt and a pair of pants. There was an underwear box too. Bucky pulled it out, threw the clothes over it and carried them to the bed.

Ester turned around. She met Bucky’s gaze warily.

Bucky put the clothes down.

Ester pushed herself up and leaned back to the wall. She pulled the blanket up to cover her chest.

“Get dressed. We have to go.” Bucky told the girl and went outside. He closed the door and waited. A gun in hands, of course.

Five minutes passed. The door behind him creaked open. He turned his head to find Ester peeking out at him. Her small face was pale, so the red eyes and rose-colored lips stood out. She had changed into an over-sized green checkered shirt and a pair of blue jeans. She was wearing a pair of worn-out Converse sneakers. Did he choose these clothes for her earlier? Bucky didn’t remember.

Slowly, Ester opened the door and stepped out. She handed him a piece of paper.

A message was written on it.

_They took my brother and Brock._

“I’ll get them back,” Bucky told Ester even though she couldn’t hear any of his words.

Bucky offered a hand to her and the girl took it. He hurriedly led her out of the house.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Brock was held in confinement to a small room enclosed by the frosted glass wall. Although slightly bigger, the room was no better than a sloppy prison cell. It had no light bulbs nor windows. Soft white light from the corridor poured into the room through the glass wall. The light was always turned on. Brock was provided with a metal pan bunk bed with a thin mattress, a door to a toilet, and an unwanted security camera. Nothing more, nothing less.

After making an appearance at the park, Brock was packed into a van. They chained him up, blindfolded him, and drove him away from the cheering crowd. The trip took several hours. Brock tried to draw a map in his head to locate where they were taking him, but the van kept turning around or shaking to stop. When the vehicle came to a halt, Brock could merely guess as his feet touched the ground, that the destination was out of the city by the softness of the soil under his boots and the divine smell of stream and forest.

And then, he was pulled underground to a lit metallic dungeon and finally to this vacant cell.

Brock was sitting on the bottom bunk, staring at the cell’s door. He placed his elbows on his tights, doing nothing except breathing in and breathing out. Every breath smelled like wrath. A growl rumbled at the back of his throat. He eye-balled the blurred figure that was standing guard outside the door. The figure was holding a machine gun.

A plate of grilled beef steak and a glass of water were neglected and getting cold near the sliding door. Meals had been served three times already but Brock barely touched any of it. Every time a guard came in the room with hands full of food, Brock itched to attack him and escape, but he had a reason to stay.

He had a very good reason to behave.

The reason was saving Ester and Josef.

HYDRA didn’t have to lock him up. He would agree to do everything they expected of him. Brock had to figure out where Josef was and bring the children to safety. Until then, he would be HYDRA’s bitch. He would be whatever they told him to be. He would lick their shoes like a fucking dog if that would keep the children away from harm. These numbnuts had better pray that he wouldn’t achieve his goal because, as soon as the children were safe, he would hunt down every HYDRA’s agent and, swearing to God, he would burn them alive.

The door slid open. Two men came inside. One of them beckoned with his chin ordering Brock to follow, so Brock pushed himself from the bed and followed like a good bitch. The two guards were in front of him, leading him through the corridor. The guy who had stood guard in front of Brock’s cell trailed behind.

The corridor went straight to an office, also surrounded by frosted glass. Another two big guys were guarding the door. One of them knocked on the door twice before it slid open. The big guy gestured to Brock’s group to march inside.

The two guards minded the door as the other was annoyingly at Brock’s heels.

The office was enchanted with minimalist decoration. It had a curved glass desk that came with two black leather chairs. A silver laptop computer and a silver Beretta M9A1 lay on the top of the desk. The pistol was the same model as ones used by US Marine Corps, holding 15 rounds of ammunition. Only the grips were altered to white skull carving.

A familiar voice came up to greet him, but the voice wasn’t communicating with him. Carl was sitting cross-legged on the desk, an iPhone in his finespun hand. A little piece of paper was trapped between his long fingers of the other hand which was placed at the edge of the desk. “Yes, sir. I’ll send him out.”

The wicked gray eyes traveled across the cold metal floor to climb Brock’s body until they met with his. “All is fine, sir. Crossbones knows better than to misbehave.” Carl’s full lips curled up into a smirk. He snorted, softly shaking his golden ponytail. “The only slight problem here, sir, is that he’s conducting himself too decently I’m being ripped off the chance of making him squirm.”

Brock stared at Carl and got stared back provocatively. Carl might be acting like a psycho pansy but he got the gray eyes of steel.

Suddenly, the steel melted and turned away leaving Brock’s eyes hurt for staring too intense. Carl tucked the smartphone into the pocket of his well-fitted slacks. “I have bad news for you, Mr. Crossbones. Please, sit down.”

Carl jerked his chin to the black leather chair matching the one behind his desk. Brock didn’t move, so the guard persuaded him with a heavy nudge on his shoulder. “Sit down,” the guard snarled.

“Fuck you,” Brock snarled back and was rewarded with a kick to the back of his leg. He slumped onto the floor.

“We don’t have to do business crudely, Mr. Crossbones.” Carl bent forward, drawing up a line of worry on his forehead. “Although I don’t mind making you feel embarrassed in every nasty way possible.”

Brock grunted. He took the seat, though slowly. “What’s the bad news?”

“The girl’s gone.”

Brock’s muscle went rigid with fear. “What do you mean—”

“Someone kidnapped her from the ranch. We think that someone is Winter Soldier. Your boyfriend.”

Brock snapped his eyes shut as the last word was spoken. He bit his teeth and took in a deep breath. His cheekbones were warmed by Carl’s giggles, but he didn’t feel insulted or ashamed by the word. Instead, he felt accountable. A surge of protectiveness rolled up inside him. He also felt relieved. If Winter Soldier had really taken Ester, she was in good hands now. There was a tiny pause before he drew out the air from his lungs and asked another question.

“How can you be so sure?” Brock asked hoping that Carl could prove that he was guessing right. “What happened?”

“We found his fingerprints. We also found his metal hand’s fingerprint,” Carl told him. “Who else can grip a window frame so hard it cracks?”

“What happened? Tell me all of it.”

“You shouldn’t be asking this question. I’m trying to save you from the ugly truth.”

Brock jumped to his feet. He seized Carl’s collar and growled at Carl’s face. “Tell me.”

Carl raised his hand to stop the guard from pulling Brock back, but the guard thrust the pistol to the back of Brock’s head regardless. Carl stared into Brock’s eyes blankly. His face didn’t give anything away while he was contemplating telling Brock the whole story. A moment later, the corners of his mouth dropped, and he expressed a sigh in defeat. “We found the girl’s trousers on the bloody floor.”

Brock saw red. His breath became raging and shaking. He clenched Carl’s collar tightly he could break the fabric. He yanked Carl up and slammed the pansy’s ass down on the desk. The piece of paper Carl had been holding fell on the floor.

Carl winced and softly coughed. “We found only the trousers. Nothing else. The corpses are still clothed. I think Winter Soldier was there in time to save the girl from being raped.”

Despite Carl’s optimistic assumption, nothing could calm Brock down. He glowered at Carl. “I’m gonna kill you.”

Carl frowned. “Rape is the grossest crime there is. I don’t condone it. If I had known that those mongrels would force themselves on the little girl, I would have cut their balls off and made them swallow their own filth.” His voice, which had been either playful or cold, was slightly shaking. His slender body shivered in repugnance.

“Save your fucking excuses,” Brock snarled, “I’m gonna kill all of you motherfuckers.”

“I understand your rage. But I mean it. I feel disgusted not less than you do. I’m so sorry.” It sounded almost like begging. “And we have a job to do.”

“Your job, not mine.” Brock stole a glance at the pistol on the desk.

Carl knew exactly what Brock was thinking. “Don’t make me kill you, Crossbones. It’s not worth it. You know the girl is safe now. You do what I say. I’ll give you back the boy. And, after that, you can go on with your life.”

The gun pushed Brock from behind. “Step back.”

Brock released Carl and stepped back. Carl fussed over his shirt’s collar then climbed off the desk. He bent down to pick up the paper from the floor.

“What do you want me to do?” Brock asked. He wanted to get this over with.

“I do want to know why Winter Soldier went to your house if it was really him that killed those… those sick fucks,” Carl said, “but you don’t know why, I suppose.”

Brock only glared at him hard enough to cut glass.

“I think so.” Carl rolled his hand. “I want you to track him down and bring him back to the ranch house where my men would be cleaning up and waiting.”

“It’s not that easy. You said it yourself the window frame didn’t stand a chance. How can I?” Brock said, sarcastically.

“I know very well you’re weaker than him but you are the most competent person for the task.”

Brock knit his eyebrows. Carl smiled and handed over that paper he was holding. Brock unfolded it. There were ten words written in Russian. “What is it?”

“They were trigger words. Like one of those used by therapists to hypnotize their clients,” Carl explained. “I have a guard who can speak Russian. He can teach you to pronounce them right. Say these words and Winter Soldier will do whatever you want.”

Brock swept his eyes across the paper again and again. The longer he read the words which were meaningless to him, the more heavily, he felt a weight of depression pressing down his heart.

Ten little words.

It took the safety of two persons Brock cared about for HYDRA to bend Brock to their will. Still, the fuckers couldn’t control him entirely. Brock was still himself, thinking like himself, choosing for himself, and capable of escape. He was well aware that he was being manipulated.

But it only took ten seconds to throw Winter Soldier back down the pit of slavery so dark and so deep the poor man didn’t know how to climb out. The soldier’s head would be so fucked he wouldn’t know that he had to climb out. Winter Soldier would be used as a stupid tool to commit crimes. These ten words would rob Winter Soldier of his free will and conscience, the quality and value of a human being.

Those begging blue eyes that had been haunting Brock for days would be no more.

Winter Soldier would stare blankly into the emptiness, wasting his prolonged empty life like a piece of meat waiting to rot in a refrigerator.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

As soon as Brock was out of the plane, a trace of sweat started to grow on the back of his shirt. The weather was very warm, soggy, and drenching. Black clouds lurking low to the ground and freaking booming sound had shaken the airplane many times to warn them about an upcoming rainstorm long before their arrival. The heavy storm was promising to wash McKenzie County for the entire afternoon and nothing could stop it.

After six hours of flying to North Dakota, Brock was jammed into a black Volvo with two men in the front seats and another two beside him. The vehicle had waited for them at Watford City Municipal Airport. Brock was secured into the back seat and then handcuffed to the guy on his left side. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of new leather and the mixed body odors.

The first drop of the rain fell onto the windshield at the moment the engine roared into life, and in a split second, the tiny drop was followed by a gusty squall snapping hard enough to break a bone. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, but still the driver couldn't see anything outside. The driver cursed loudly. He pulled up on the side of the street and killed the freshly started engine. The driver told the others that they had no choice but to wait for the violent blow to pass. The other guys shifted impatiently, but no one protested.

Trapped between two chunks of muscle, Brock listened to the tune of the wrathful storm. His right leg shook twice. He noticed it and quickly forced himself to stop. Carl had given him forty-eight hours, starting from the second they arrived at Watford, to bring Winter Soldier back to the Britts Ranch where Carl had stated that he and his men would be waiting. The squall, halting the journey, was wasting Brock’s time. However, he had better not show his nervousness around his captors. Brock could only hope that the squall wouldn’t be around that long.

 

 

_Nine hours earlier_

 

While Brock was learning how to pronounce the trigger words, Carl listened to his struggle. Carl smiled encouragingly like a missionary when Brock couldn’t say the words correctly.

“Dobrosadishly?” Brock was getting frustrated. “Speak more slowly!” He barked at the Russian guard who was teaching him.

Carl gave Brock a squeeze of support on the shoulders which Brock immediately shook off. The slim man then bent down and whispered, “Добросердечный,” with the same perfect accent as the Russian.

“It means kind-hearted,” the mysterious man smiled. “It means gentle.”

It meant the strong arms wrapping around his body just to make him feel wanted and safe. It meant the warmth flooding into his chest and the curve of those pretty lips he had never tasted.

“I can’t,” Brock snapped. He placed his elbows on the table and bent down to grip his forehead.

The murky memory was pounding inside his head along with the uncertain rhythm of his throbbing heart. It started to come back. _The_ memory started to come back. He remembered what he had done. He remembered what _they_ had done.

He remembered the hard body clinging to his side, making him trapped and sweaty, but he didn’t push that body away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the warm body and buried his nose in that brown hair, stealing a faint smell of sweat and his own shampoo. The body was so close he could easily brand it as his own. It took a lot of self-control not to give in to the strong craving that was impatiently growing beyond ready.

Brock gulped. “I can’t.”

Carl eyed him for a moment. His eyebrows, which didn’t exist, quirked. “You can’t speak Russian or you can’t bring him back?”

Still looking down, Brock held his breath. “The words. I can’t say them right.”

“Practice makes perfect,” said Carl with a soft sigh. “Добросердечный. You just need to speak faster and buzz your tongue.”

Brock was trying to get it right. He had the kids to save. Even though he knew for sure he would be damned if he ever got it right.

What he was going to do was…

A betrayal?

Promise-breaking?

Lying?

It was what?

No matter what it was, soon it would be simply cruelty for them both.

 

 

The squall finally died out after several minutes which, Brock thought, was the longest several-minute of his life.

Although the squall had passed, the light rain lingered, and the rain clouds stayed. The field became muddy, and the soil was soft. The Volvo rumbled when the driver brought it back to life. He tried to pull it back up on the lane. Once the wheels hit the road, the car headed out of Watford at speed in fear that another storm would soon surprise the city. Flash of lights cracked from the low-hanging clouds while the vehicle was running toward the distant thunderbolts.

The weather kindly left them in peace.

For only a few minutes.

The heavy rainstorm was finally released and this time, the awful weather would stick as long as the clouds were sticking. The rain slapped the windshield ruthlessly, blocking the view and caused the driver to slow down. The car’s windows became filmy by dropping temperature and humidity. It was hard to see the road.

The guy on Brock’s right offered him juicy fruit chewing gum. Brock declined the offer.

Brock had all the time in the world to think.

_101 Broadway, Fargo. Top floor._

Winter Soldier, no, Barnes had told Brock that he would be there.

Brock had checked the place up. Locating in the downtown area, the place looked more like a commercial building than a rental apartment, but a rental apartment it was. Although he couldn’t get the name of the top floor’s tenant, he was quite sure it wasn’t ‘James Buchanan Barnes’. Even if the sergeant was miraculously not recorded as deceased in the civil registry, Barnes had been a Sleeping Beauty and had been woken up to be a fugitive just recently. Brock was certain that the apartment belonged to someone else.

Anyway, Brock wasn’t so certain that Barnes would be there. Although those blue eyes weren’t lying when Barnes told him the address, Brock wouldn’t bet the ranch on it. However, for now, it was the only starting point he got.

What if the man that took Ester wasn’t Barnes?

Well, that would be another problem.

The bigger problem.

His thought leaped back to Carl’s accusation. He hoped that Carl’s accusation was correct, and that HYDRA agents really had found Barnes’ fingerprints at the ranch house.

But why? Why had Barnes gone there?

Carl wanted to know the reason. Brock, too, wanted an explanation.

Had Barnes already regained his memory?

If Barnes had regained his memory…

The idea had the said memory flooded back in vivid details.

Once Brock had recovered his memory, the past became irresistibly addictive. Now, he knew that the Halloween morning they had shared hadn’t been in a rush.

_Brock had slept well and woken up late by children’s laughter from the outside. The glow of sunlight invaded the room through the curtains and rested on the messy bed. Brock looked out but hardly saw anything with his sleepy eyes. He pushed himself up to the sitting position and looked around the room. The naked body of Winter Soldier curled up at his side like a tamed cat, hard chest rising and falling. Reaching out, he gently shook Winter Soldier awake. The blue eyes hesitated but, a few seconds later, slowly flickered to life._

_He should let go. But he didn’t._

_Brock’s hand slid to Winter Soldier’s neck, his thumb rubbing against the stubbly chin. Winter Soldier groaned softly and then he lay on his back, throwing his arms back, sprawling on the mattress with only the thin blanket covering his lower half._

_How could Brock ignore that conquest? Brock bowed forward to suck Winter Soldier’s neck while his hands pinched the hardening nipples. His chest swelled with pride as he heard the seductive moan escape from Winter Soldier’s lips. He pulled the blanket off, intending to give the man a hand-job. Brock felt Winter Soldier’s member up and down. While he was working on the length, his eyes wandered from those pink lips down to the gleaming fluid on the tip of the penis._

Brock’s cheek burned with a sensation somewhere between shame and arousing. His body stirred with lust-filled images of himself and Winter Soldier making out. Brock tried to focus on the serious task at hand but he couldn’t. Not getting a hard-on took priority over thinking straight.

Brock tried not to think about that morning, but, like he said, it was addictive. Whenever he tried to shift his thought somewhere else, his brain betrayed him and played the naked James Barnes up front. He couldn’t stop dreaming about it as if he were a teenager who had just had his first sex. He wanted to hide his face in his hands and groan in embarrassment.

The Volvo swaying to the right side of the road shook Brock out of his daydreaming. The driver cursed and tried to roll back the wheel. Brock turned his head and saw that another car, an indigo blue Jeep Cherokee, was running very close behind in the falling rain.

“What the fuck?!” The driver yelled when the blue car sped up. It crashed into the back of the Volvo. The two guys on the back seat smacked their heads against the windows.

The jeep then sped up again to run side by side with the Volvo. The jeep slammed into the left side of the black car, throwing it off the road. Fortunately, the Volvo didn’t roll over and there were no trees to bump into. Brock grabbed the front seat, holding his breath, waiting for the vehicle to halt.

Two shots rang out. The two guys that sat with Brock instinctively threw their heads down.

The man who sat in the passenger seat and the driver drew out their guns. The rain was blocking the view. They opened the door and rolled outside. As soon as the driver got off the car, he was down on the wet ground. The attacker jumped on the roof, shot the other guy on the opposite side in the shoulder, slammed the door shut and then thrust the guy’s jaw into the side window.

The men in the car saw blood mixed with the pouring rain and were startled. Brock took the chance. He swung his free elbow to the guy on his right and crashed the guy’s head into the front seat, breaking his nose, and then hit him with the steel-like fist again.

The guy on his left pulled out a gun, but before the guy could say a threat, the window broke. A metal hand burst in, grabbed the hold of the guy’s neck, and pulled him out with the door. Brock was dragged along because of the handcuff. But he didn’t go that far. He was hanging at the edge of the car when the last man was knocked down.

James Barnes was towering over him, armed with an assault rifle. His face was half covered by a black ski mask. Drops of water were dripping from his hair that was pulled up into a short ponytail. When he saw that Brock was linked to the unconscious man by the chain handcuff, he seized the chain with his metal hand, broke it, and offered a hand to help Brock onto his feet. Brock ignored the hand and climbed out of the car, into the rain.

Barnes found the key of the handcuff in one of the guys’ pocket. He passed the key to Brock who hurriedly unlocked the handcuff and threw both things away. Dragged by the super strength, the handcuff had burned into his skin.

Barnes winced at the red wound around Brock’s wrist.

“Sorry. I didn’t know,” Barnes whispered.

Brock ignored that again. He looked at the Volvo and realized that those two shots he had heard earlier had only targeted the wheels. All the men that accompanied him were lying unconscious on the ground but they seemed to be alive. Barnes didn’t kill them.

Finally, Brock didn’t have anything more to look at, except his rescuer.

_Face the truth._

Brock turned to Barnes. First, Brock had to say ‘thank you’.

Barnes cocked his head to the waiting blue jeep. “Let’s go meet the girl.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Bucky threw himself into the jeep, put the rifle between his legs, and started the engine. He strapped the seat belt on, glancing sideways at his passenger who hurriedly followed suit. As soon as they both were tied to their seats, Bucky took off into the whip of the storm.

“Is Ester alright?” Rumlow turned to Bucky and asked.

“She was frightened but she’s fine.”

“Where is she?”

“The place I told you about. I’m taking you there.”

Normally, it took five hours to go from Watford City to Fargo. But in this unkind weather, it could take over seven hours to get there. Bucky could go over the speed limit but he wasn’t going to break any transportation laws today. Even moving legally at seventy-five mile per hour sounded too dangerous for the stormy afternoon drive.

“We will be there by nightfall.” Bucky stole a glance at Rumlow’s face briefly. “Don’t worry. The girl’s safe. Someone’s looking after her.”

“Who?”

“A friend of mine.”

Rumlow frowned. “Rogers?”

“No, she isn’t an Avengers member. But she can be trusted.”

“What about the dog?”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

“Did they kill her?”

Bucky nodded and heard a sharp intake.

“Fuck,” Rumlow spat out. His face twisted into multiple shades of disgust. His low voice seared with pain and anger. “Fuck.”

“I’m so sorry.” Bucky couldn’t say anything more than that. He had done everything he could. “If I could drag those stiffs back from hell and killed them again, I would.”

Rumlow just nodded, and then he plunked himself into the seat. His muscular chest was heaving unsteady. Worry was still clouding his scarred face, but, for now, Rumlow was trying his best to calm down.

Cold air blew out of the air conditioner tingling his body and Bucky shuddered. It reminded him that both of them were dripping from head to toe, all thanks to the heavy rainstorm outside. His thoroughly wet pants hugged his thighs like a second skin. He was positively sure that the pistol in the thigh holder had become useless. His boots, smeared by a trail of mud, were unpleasantly waterlogged. Bucky was fighting an itch to stop the car and shake them off.

Rumlow didn’t look any warmer. His black T-shirt was soaked and cold enough to cause shivers. Water dribbled down his arms as he squeezed his saturated T-shirt on the left shoulder. The army green cargo pants stuck to his strong legs like a thin layer of paper, showing off everything underneath. The dropping temperature was raw against his skin. The nipples were sticking out.

Bucky averted his eyes.

Good, he told himself, Rumlow seemed to be carrying no weapons. And because Rumlow had been handcuffed, it could be interpreted that Rumlow had been a prisoner of HYDRA and forced to work for them.

Rumlow was observing the flow of water pouring down the car window. He seemed nervous. Rumlow was tightening and loosening his grip around the seat belt. That was very strange. The man who had been a commander of S.T.R.I.K.E. team shouldn’t have been shaken by a little surprise attack, and even if Rumlow did feel nervous, an ex-double agent wouldn’t have bared his feelings. So, what was it?

“Were they taking you to the ranch?” Bucky asked.

Air caught in Rumlow’s throat. “Y… yes.”

“Those guys are HYDRA?”

“That’s what they say,” Rumlow told him. “But I’m starting to think that they are not.”

“Why?”

Rumlow scratched his forehead and answered. “The guy you beat up earlier, he offered me chewing gum.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“I worked for HYDRA my whole life, no one ever gave me no chewing gum.”

“I never got any either.” Bucky chuckled.

Silence took over.

For awhile.

The storm had diminished when they arrived at Dickinson. They were on the Interstate Highway, so they didn’t see any shops. They didn’t even see other people nor other vehicles passing along. The mad storm chased them away. That was good news. Bucky didn’t intend to stop over in any cities. He moved the jeep straight-forward to the east. The road was still bleak, and the sky was still gloomy, but since the storm had been blown away a bit, Bucky stepped on the gas to speed up the car.

Rumlow shifted in his seat. Bucky heard him inhale deeply, and then came a husky voice, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky sedately threw back. He hadn’t expected that.

“I’m sorry. I should have said it sooner.” Rumlow lowered his head. Despite the scars, Bucky could see the color flush up Rumlow’s sunken cheeks. He tried to catch Rumlow’s eyes, but the man didn’t meet his gaze. Rumlow didn’t have to apologize, though. Bucky didn’t do it for a ‘thank you.’ He did it for… for... for nothing, he guessed.

“Thank you for saving Ester and for earlier...” Rumlow’s voice sounded unsure. “I don’t know why you did it because it’s...”

“It’s none of my business?”

Rumlow shook his head. He opened his mouth but said nothing for a few moments, searching for the right word. “I appreciate what you’ve done. I do. But…” His shoulders slumped. “Yeah, sort of.”

Bucky snorted. “I wish someone had told me that this whole thing was none of my business seventy years ago.”

“How did you find me?” Rumlow changed the topic.

“I have friends.”

“The friend you talked about? Who’s being with Ester?”

“Yes.” Bucky nodded. “They told me you were going to be transported to Watford today, so I went to the airport. The squall came in handy. While your group was waiting for the rain to stop, I went ahead to wait in the prairie.”

“Who are they?”

“You can ask her tonight,” Bucky told him. “You know, your girl and I, we’re on a first name basis now. I suggest you do the same.”

“Do the same what?”

“You can call me Bucky.”

Taken by surprise, Rumlow stopped, and then shook his head in disbelief.

“Come on. Call me.”

Rumlow hesitated. He bit his lips and looked out of the side window. “How about I call you ‘Old Man’”

“You want to skip the first name basis and call me by a nickname?” Bucky whistled. “Gee, that’s cute.”

Rumlow flushed again. He turned to the window to hide his face, but his red ears betrayed him big time.

Bucky was grinning ear-to-ear.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Ester threw herself at Brock at the moment he entered the room. He wrapped his arms around her body. Ester wrapped hers around his neck. He lifted her up. Brock took in a lungful of Ester’s scent. If he were a dog, he would sniff fear out of her fragile body. Her chest shuddered against his. Ester bit her lips, preventing the sound of weakness to come out, but she failed. Once she let out a quiet sob, the girl couldn’t hold it any longer. Brock’s chest ached as his heart was shattered when Ester started to cry.

“I’m so sorry.” Brock kissed her temple and whispered. He knew that Ester couldn’t hear him, but he said it anyway. “I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

He shouldn’t have stayed. He should have gone to where everyone wanted him most.

_Away._

Where he couldn’t cause any more disasters.

If he had died, none of this would have happened to the kids. Josef would have come home and whined about homework as usual. Ester would have smiled fondly at her brother and prepared supper. Diva would have continued to be loved, petted, and run around energetically.

Ester wouldn’t have thought less of herself.

He should have died. He should have disappeared. This shit would never ever have happened if he hadn’t been so selfish. This shit wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t wanted to be happy. A bad man, like him, didn’t deserve to be happy.

Brock lowered Ester to the floor, but Ester didn’t let go. Brock held her close, cupping the back of her head. The other hand clenched into a tight fist. Brock felt anger and grief beating in his heart, the same heart that flooded guilt through his vein. The mean to kill was growing out of control.

Those bastards would die first, and then it would be his turn.

A hard hand touched Brock’s shoulder. He turned his head. Barnes jerked his cleft chin toward the living area. Two black women were sitting on a sofa. The older one dressed in business casual. Striped shirt, black jacket, wide-leg pants, and a pair of stylish high heels. The younger one primped herself with a knee length sleeveless lace dress and black and gold stiletto heels. The older one looked at Brock and Ester and then made a stiff smile.

On the coffee table, there laid a laptop, three cups of coffee, and many pieces of paper with written messages. They communicated with Ester that way.

“This is the chief security. She will help us finding Josef,” Barnes told Brock. The older of the two women got up.

“Who are you?” Brock asked warily.

She didn’t introduce herself right away. Instead, she regarded Brock carefully and said, “our master hopes to help you. We’re doing our best to find the boy.”

“We?” Brock frowned deeply. “Are you in a band of mercenaries?”

“We don’t fight for money, Mr. Rumlow,” She said solemnly. “We help you because Mr. Barnes vouches for you. If you betray his trust, I’ll kill you with my own hands. Got it?”

Honesty was the best.

Brock’s eyes locked on hers. The woman’s expression was fierce and iron-like. Brock couldn’t read her. He didn’t know why she bothered, but those eyes told him that she would help him find safety for Ester and Josef. For his beloved kids. Brock averted his eyes, said his gratitude, and shook the hand which the strong woman reached out.

“I’m Aneka,” she offered with an accepting smile, “and this is Okoye.”

The beautiful woman in the black dress nodded.

“We’ll escort Ester to the safer place tonight.”

Brock looked at the girl in his arms and then at Aneka. He asked, “where?”

“You need not worry. Ester will be safe with us like Mr. Barnes was safe with us.”

Brock was wary and he wasn’t ready to let go of Ester just yet. Ester, not understanding anything, was clinging to him, looking at him with tearful eyes but she didn’t demand any explanations.

“Don’t worry,” Barnes interrupted. “They are trustworthy. These dames in all the glad-rags are more gangster than you.”

Aneka gave Barnes a warning look. Barnes smiled and bowed his head. “And me.”

“Now, Mr. Rumlow.” Aneka dismissed Barnes. She motioned her hand telling Brock to go and sit down. “Do you mind telling us everything about what’s going on?”

 

 

Brock had Ester sit by his side. The girl overwhelmed him with fried chicken, macaroni, and cheese. Ester gave him a glass of drinking water. His wet clothes still stuck to his skin. It stained the sofa and the carpet, but the room was warm enough not to care.

The room, as he had been told, belonged to Aneka’s master. It had a living room connecting with a kitchen and a small dining area. The room decor was contemporary with gray and white colored furniture. The laptop on the coffee table showed footage from security cameras attached to every corner of the building. Barnes disappeared behind a door which, Brock guessed, led to a bedroom. The sergeant didn’t close the door so he could hear the conversation which was being made outside. There were the other doors, one of them was of the bathroom. The living space had two windows, both were shut tight.

Brock told Aneka about Carl and how he had taken hostage of the kids. Carl had only sent him to Washington D.C. to appear before the hungry reporters, and then Carl had locked Brock up. No, Brock answered when Aneka asked, that he didn’t know anything about the mysterious man, except that he had no eyebrows and spoke fluent Russian.

“Black Widow might be able to shed some light on us. Her net is incredible, or so I heard.” Barnes said, emerging from the bedroom after changing his wet clothes to a gray tank top and dry camouflage cargo pants. Barnes was holding a white towel. He walked to the living room barefoot. The prosthetic arm fit him perfectly as if the metal had grown out of his skin. His soaked hair hung casually on his cheeks.

“If we asked for Black Widow’s assistance, we would have to tell Captain Rogers,” Aneka voiced her opinion.

“Cap doesn’t know what you are doing?” Brock asked Barnes, his eyebrows rose.

“I promised you that I wouldn’t tell him, so I haven’t.” Barnes draped the towel on Brock’s shoulder. The gentle action and the remembered promise made the cheese Brock had eaten swirl in his stomach. He forced his hands to stay where they were, on Ester’s hands, not grab the towel and lift it to his nose.

Barnes dropped himself in an empty chair and picked up a large piece of fried chicken. “Steve will complain forever once he knows about this, so I say we keep our mouths shut.”

“Then, asking Black Widow for help won’t be a good idea. She and Captain Rogers are on good terms,” Aneka said, “but I think you will have to tell him eventually.”

Barnes chewed and swallowed. He shrugged.

“Why did they take you to the ranch?” Okoye asked Brock.

“Carl told me about Ester and he knew who had taken her. Winter Soldier.” Brock dropped his gaze to his lap. “Carl wanted me to find Winter Soldier and bring him back to the ranch. He gave me three days or he’ll kill Josef.”

Silence hung in the air. Brock couldn’t bring himself to translate what he’d just said into sign language. Ester had better not know about this.

“What are you going to do?” Aneka asked. “He probably has already known about Mr. Barnes’ ambush by now.”

Three pairs of eyes stared at him, two of them emotionless, one, Barnes’, full of concern. Brock stole a glance at Barnes and quickly turned away. He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. Yet. But I think Carl will wait three days as he said.”

“You trust him?” The question came from Barnes.

“I’m not saying I’d wait three days. I’ll think something up.”

Aneka was sending a message with her smartphone. “I’ll order my men to search for Josef and this man Carl. Whatever you choose to do next, do inform us.”

Brock nodded. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“We have to depart now. The security team is waiting for us,” Aneka said. “The girl comes with us.”

Brock turned to Ester. He rolled each of his hand into a fist, clapped them together and then stretched his arms forward. He pointed his right index finger and swept past Aneka and her young companion. Brock then pointed four fingers up straightly, had his thumb bent and thrust the hand forward. He rolled each hand into a fist again, crossed it in front of him showing the front to Ester and drew them apart.

_Go with them. Be safe._

Anxiety flooded Ester’s face. Brock told her not to worry, that she was far from harm now. Josef would be rescued too. They would be home soon.

He didn’t know if he used the right sign language or not, but they would be home soon.

Or Brock would die trying.

Brock and Barnes went to the door to see the ladies off.

“Give us a ring when you got there,” Barnes told Aneka. She nodded.

Ester hugged Brock tightly. The pretty girl reluctantly let go when Aneka touched her elbow. The girl stepped back. She crossed both hands over her chest and then pointed at Brock. She said that she loved him. He copied her plus a tired smile.

Ester tilted her head to look at Barnes. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, making an X sign and hit one hand at another. She pointed at Brock and made a ‘please’ motion. After that, she followed Aneka to the elevator.

 

 

 

 

Barnes locked the door and double checked it while Brock was stalking back and forth in the living room. This was his chance. He was alone with Barnes. This was his chance to use the trigger words.

Aneka had threatened to kill him if he betrayed Barnes. She got Ester, but Brock was pretty sure the fierce lady wouldn’t harm the innocent girl. If Brock used the trigger words and traded Barnes with Josef, he could bring the children to some place safe. After that, God knew Aneka could kill him twice for all he cared.

“What did she say?” Barnes’ voice came from the entrance. Brock turned around and saw Barnes walk toward him.

“The girl. What did she just say to me?” Barnes asked.

Brock’s cheeks heated. He looked away. “She asked you to save her brother.”

Brock lied.

Barnes didn’t buy it. He pointed at Brock and tilted his head to the right. “But she pointed at you.”

“She asked you to help me save her brother.”

He lied again.

Brock swore he would never tell a soul that Ester had asked this guy to protect him. Brock was surely capable of taking care of himself.

The spot Brock had sat on the sofa was still damp. Brock sat back down.

“Fair enough. What about the gesture before that?” Barnes curled his fingers into a fist and crossed both hands over the middle of his chest. “You both did this and pointed at each other.”

Brock fought himself not to sigh. “It means ‘love you.’”

Barnes did it several times and nodded to himself. “Sweet. I’ll put this in my memory book.”

A smile crept up the corner of Brock’s mouth. “I thought you’d speak like an old man.” Brock blurted out before he could stop himself.

Barnes looked up. He was intrigued. “And?”

“You speak like an old man.”

“I _am_ an old man. In what manner do you expect me to speak?”

Weird.

A strange feeling swelled in Brock’s chest. He’d never expected that he, one day, would sit in the same room as Winter Soldier and exchange jokes.

Well, this guy wasn’t Winter Soldier though. This guy was James Barnes. Cap’s pal. They weren’t the same man. James Barnes wasn’t whom Brock had fed, touched, and caressed.

This guy wasn’t important to him. They were strangers. Brock told himself that he could do it. He could use the trigger to save those that really mattered.

_Stay focus on saving the kids._

_Gulp down the guilt and do it._

“Juvania,” Brock whispered.

The word caught Barnes’ attention. “What did you say?”

“Juvania,” Brock tried again, louder this time.

Barnes frowned. “What does that mean?”

Brock pressed his lips together.

Fuck. His. Russian.

Despite all the practice, Brock failed miserably.

“Nothing,” Brock said.

Barnes crossed his arms and threw Brock a knowing look.

“Come clean, now,” Barnes ordered.

Brock told Barnes about the trigger words, about him plotting to use these words to capture Barnes to help Josef, about him learning to pronounce the Russian words for several hours, but still, his skill didn’t flourish.

“It’s useless.” Brock grabbed the side of his head and pulled his hair with annoyance.

Barnes looked at him, frowned, and then cracked up. He laughed loud enough that Brock wanted to put a bullet in Barnes’ brain to stop the embarrassment.

“Shut up, Old Man,” Brock snarled.

“Oh, God. I’m saved by poor language skill!” Barnes breathlessly uttered between laughter.

Brock felt himself flush from head to toe. “Shut the fuck up!”

Barnes brought himself to the chair he had occupied earlier and sank down, still chuckling. “Don’t be grumpy. I’ll teach you.”

“What? Are you nuts?”

“I thought that’s your plan, making me nuts.”

Brock swallowed. He turned away and muttered. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Barnes acknowledged his apology with a firm nod. They sat in silence until Barnes spoke again. “Your Russian is really bad, Rumlow. I wish everybody in the world would speak Russian _poorly_ so I could be left in peace.”

“Fuck you,” Brock grumbled. “I didn’t pay attention when Carl and that Russian guy taught me.”

All he had paid attention to was the fresh memory he had regained, the naked Winter Soldier beside him and the body warmth they had shared. Who could learn Russian when all he could focus on were the newfound sexual memory and how to not sport a hard-on in front of the enemies?

Brock rubbed his face with his palm. Now he was left with nothing but the stupid hope.

“Желание,” Barnes whispered, “longing.”

Brock looked at him. Barnes gave him a sad smile. “Желание, right? I can teach you to pronounce it perfectly.”

Brock was going to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, but Barnes cut him short. “Just in case Aneka couldn’t find Josef in time. You’ll trade me with him.”

Brock shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

“You can and you will.” Barnes reached over, but before he could touch Brock, he pulled his hand back. “How many words do they use?”

“Ten.”

“Swell. It won’t take long.” Barnes leaned back onto the backrest. “Repeat after me, Squirt. Желание.”

Brock placed one of his hands in the other and squeezed. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word, or say any words.

“Rumlow,” Barnes called him. The tone was commanding.

“I can’t do that.” Brock took a shuddering breath. “I… I told you before, didn’t I? That I didn’t like it when Pierce had done those things to you. I promised you that I wouldn’t hurt you. But I… I just tried to do the same thing. And I hate myself for trying.”

For a long moment, Barnes didn’t say anything, so Brock raised his head in order to study the sergeant. Barnes was watching Brock with wide eyes.

“Your memory’s back?”

Brock just said it, didn’t he? He just told Barnes flat out that he remembered.

Shit.

Barnes sprang up from the backrest. “Tell me.”

“No way.”

Barnes leaned across and seized Brock’s wrist. “Come on, tell me. If I am in those memories, they are mine, too.”

Brock tried to pull away but the bastard had to take hold of him by that deadly prosthetic hand. Brock couldn’t shake it off.

“It’s nothing,” Brock heard himself say. His face was hot. So did the wrist which Barnes was grabbing so tightly.

“You were practically half-dead when they carried you to me and laughed at my face. Was that nothing to you?”

“I don’t recall that.”

“I do. I’m telling you.” Barnes drew Brock closer until he was breathing into Brock’s face. “You called Pierce son of a bitch and threatened him to let me go. They beat you until you threw up blood. I tried to help you but they threatened to kill you. They knocked you over and dragged your bloody body to me.”

“Do you know what they said?” Barnes stared into Brock’s eyes. “He can’t save you, faggot.”

A shiver ran down Brock’s spine. His eyes widened with the mixture of fear and surprise. He abruptly leaned away and jerked his hand back, but Barnes allowed none of it. Barnes pinned Brock’s hand on the sofa’s armrest between them. Another hand caught the collar of Brock’s damp T-shirt and yanked him forward. Their foreheads almost touched.

“It can’t be nothing. It’s something to me. Why don’t you just come clean and tell me what you know.”

Brock gulped.

Barnes was looking at him. The blue eyes were begging, no, commanding with a hint of annoyance.

“We fucked,” Brock faltered.

Brock shook his head as if to dismiss what he had just said. “We fucked.” He forced himself to let the truth out again. The truth he knew by every angle and detail.

The truth he felt.

His cheeks flushed and his breathing became heavy.

Barnes blinked. His lips parted but the soldier was lost for words.

“They called you faggot. What else do you think we did? We fucked! And Pierce knew it.” Brock pulled his hand away and this time Barnes let him. Brock rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. He shifted away from Barnes and looked somewhere else.

“I shouldn’t have remembered it. I didn’t want to remember it.” Brock mumbled.

“Is it that gross?” Barnes quietly asked, his eyes locked on the floor.

“Yes!” Brock’s face contorted with disgust. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Barnes sat quietly for a long time.

Finally, the soldier agreed. “You and me both.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

_Ding._

The elevator door slid open. The lobby’s lamp was turned off. There was no aid coming from the entrance as the sleepy world wasn’t ready for the first light. The only source of light was the yellow beam hanging in the elevator. Bucky stalked the passage to the back of the building. The large shadow of Rumlow was trailing behind. Darkness consumed them when the elevator door glided shut.

Bucky was armed to the teeth, with an M4 carbine, a SIG Sauer pistol, a Titanium combat knife secured under his long-sleeved leather jacket, and two grenades. The grenades were dangling from his tactical belt alongside bulletproof goggles and a black ski-mask. He was wearing his hair down and messy.

Bucky opened the back door and stepped out into the parking lot that was filled up with mostly cheap cars blanketed with droplets. Their jeep was parked near the exit. There was no movement nor sound, but Bucky lifted his rifle up nonetheless.

Rumlow didn’t draw his weapon, just watched the parking lot cautiously while following Bucky to the jeep. The agent borrowed a dry T-shirt and a pair of cargo pants from Bucky. A gun holster fastened Rumlow’s right thigh. The ex-HYDRA agent also borrowed a semi-automatic pistol and two ammunition magazines holding twelve live rounds each which he’d tucked into his cargo pants’ pocket. He’d put on his own boots which were still too dampish to be comfortable.

They climbed into the jeep which was slightly wrecked here and there. Rumlow was behind the wheel and Bucky tied himself to the passenger seat. Bucky glanced sideways at Rumlow as the driver turned the key and the car engine came to life. Rumlow’s uneven beard was wild. His morning hair was sticking up. He looked tired. The engine’s roar concealed the sound of his sigh.

Their eyes still hadn’t met since Bucky woke up.

But he’d noticed Rumlow stealing a glance at him once or twice, or as many times as Rumlow liked, thinking that Bucky didn’t know about it.

The jeep jumped at the touch of the street and rushed forward. At this hour of the day, hopefully, there would be no traffic and no cops. The plan was going to the ranch to meet Carl. Bucky would play Winter Soldier, putting on the mask and goggles, pretending that he had been brainwashed. Both of them didn’t expect Carl to hand Josef back that easily. They also didn’t think Carl would let Rumlow go. But they hadn’t come up with any other ways except to meet Carl face-to-face and listen to what the guy had to say.

If Carl got Bucky, he would take care of himself until someone helped Josef. He knew the trigger words now. If someone tried to use the damned trigger to control him, he would kill them before they could even utter the first word. If Carl captured both of them, which was more likely, it would be better because at least they would be together. They would figure something out and buy Aneka time to acquire Josef’s whereabouts.

“What did he look like?” Bucky asked.

Rumlow knit his brows. “Who?”

“Winter Soldier,” Bucky said, “whom I supposed to play today. What did he do?”

Rumlow thought for a minute. “When someone handed him a gun and said ‘shoot,’ he shot.”

Bucky snorted. “And when they said ‘jump,’ he asked ‘how high.’”

Rumlow pressed his lips into a thin line.

Later, he said, “he just followed orders.”

“I know what he did, Rumlow. Orders or not. I saw what he did. It was terrible.” Bucky looked out of the window and smirked. “Hell, I saw what _I_ did. I know who _I_ was. Every time I snapped my finger, someone died. These memories, they’re hell to live with, reminding me every day that I’m going to hell. But I don’t know how I looked like to others. It wasn’t like Winter Soldier checked the mirror every morning. How should I act to look like him?”

Rumlow glanced at him and the corner of his mouth disapproved. “You aren’t going to hell.”

That didn’t answer the question.

Bucky tightened the grip on the rifle. “I killed people.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Rumlow countered. He opened his mouth again before Bucky could protest. “It wasn’t even _his_ fault. You were hypnotized. Those crimes you committed were forced upon you.”

Still, Bucky knew everything he had done. He was cautious enough to remember clearly. He should have tried to stop himself. Why hadn’t he?

“What else could you do, if you couldn’t even remember your name? Nothing. You didn’t have a choice.” Rumlow answered for him with a low harsh voice. “Unlike me. I’ve chosen the wrong path as far as I can remember, so save the ticket to hell for me.”

Bucky had nothing to add to that. He knew what HYDRA had done. Destruction. Rumlow had executed and been actively involved in so many operations including the Project Insight which had aimed to wipe out two hundred thousand people from the earth. Rumlow was no angel. But still.

Something inside Bucky told him that Rumlow wasn’t a bad person.

“You followed orders,” Bucky said.

“I didn’t have to.”

“They would kill you if you didn’t.”

“I should die instead of taking lives to save my own. That’s a cowardly way to live,” Rumlow said with disgust. “But I wasn’t afraid to die back then. I was just…” He took a deep breath and blinked. “I was just blind.”

“You didn’t afraid to die?”

“Not at all.” Rumlow thought for a moment. “I didn’t think Pierce would order a hit on me because I always did what I was told.”

“That’s exactly what I did. How come we ain’t going to hell, or heaven, together?”

“No, it isn’t the same. Not in the least.” Rumlow shook his head. “I chose to join HYDRA willingly. Which I shouldn’t have. I should have gone to college and gotten a job or something. Instead, I worshiped Pierce and his shit and got paid for killing and deceiving. But you, you didn’t choose HYDRA when you did have a choice.”

“When?” Bucky frowned.

“You were offered a chance to join HYDRA willingly. You said no.”

“Pierce recruited me?”

“I did,” Rumlow answered.

“Why?”

There was a pause. And silence.

“Why, Squirt?” Bucky asked again. “Why did you ask me to join HYDRA?”

More silence.

The burned face flushed responding to the name Bucky had given him. They’d actually skipped the first name basis and given each other a nickname. If Bucky was the Old Man, then Rumlow had to be the Squirt. After all, Bucky was older than Rumlow for over half a decade. He was older than Pierce too. He was even older than Steve.

Rumlow could leave the question hung in the air as long as he liked. Bucky got the answer. Bucky could guess that he had somehow regained his memories, so Rumlow, instead of handing him to Pierce, offered him a choice to become a HYDRA agent. According to Rumlow’s story, Bucky opposed the idea. No way in hell he would join HYDRA. He hated them. But a bad choice to consider was still better than being given nothing.

Brock Rumlow offered him freedom. Limited freedom. Whatever.

The important part was that Rumlow bothered.

This man proposed a way out so that Bucky wouldn’t have to be thrown back down the pit of slaves. Rumlow wanted to set Bucky free, but Bucky ruined the plan by saying no and perhaps, it resulted in both of them being dragged before Pierce to be punished as Bucky saw so many times in his dreams. The lifeless body of Rumlow on the bloody floor moved further and further, and then faded into the darkness. Bucky always woke up screaming.

Rumlow had helped because, maybe, Winter Soldier mattered to him. As much as the other way around.

Maybe. Maybe.

Why the fuck couldn’t he remember?

“You already look like him,” Rumlow’s voice attracted Bucky’s gaze, “with that hair and all.”

Bucky looked at his own reflection on the window. Shaggy-haired. Lack of color and civilization. But there was a flush of somewhat admiration in Rumlow’s tone implying that Bucky’s appearance was so very comely.

“Is that why you keep glancing at me secretly?” Bucky grimaced. “Because I look like Winter Soldier?”

Rumlow frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve noticed.”

Rumlow was about to say something but decided that he’d better slam his mouth shut and left Bucky alone.

Not a chance.

Bucky pinched at his leather jacket. “This is so not cool. They are using this word, right? Cool. I mean, in my days, we say it isn’t so spiffy.”

Rumlow let out a voice that sounded like a choke. “Spiffy? Seriously?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I dressed better than this in the past.”

“You mean, in the Great Depression?”

“That’s right. Men these days don’t even know how to dress properly. I was twenty-two when I joined the army and I considered myself excessively attractive. Every bird called me handsome.”

Rumlow snorted.

Before the war, Bucky had been groomed and neat. His hair was always trimmed. He dressed smartly with a fitted brown suit, a striped necktie in brown, gold and blue, two-tone lace-up shoes, and his favorite white fedora. Since childhood, he was endowed with charming manners every mother wanted him to date her daughter. But now, his hair was too long for his own good, and he was wearing something so not classy. The mask made him feel like an animal. He was always geared up for a war.

For barbarism and chaos.

He missed the old days. He missed his old self messing around the neighborhood with the smaller Steve. He sometimes wished Stark would create a time machine and shift him back. He would drag Rumlow back with him to show Rumlow how to dress properly. No more T-shirts and cargo pants. No more fucking ski-masks either.

“You should stop speaking if you are going to take the role seriously,” Rumlow said with a grin. “You look like him but no, you are too funny to be the Winter Soldier.”

“Is that so?” Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “So, what your Winter Soldier be like?”

Rumlow inhaled deeply and frowned again while Bucky was waiting patiently, lopsidedly grinning to the side window.

“The glare,” Rumlow said eventually. “His glare. It was so fierce but so empty.”

And how could Bucky pretend to be like that? He could glare, of course, as sharply as when he glared at some jerks who bullied Steve or his math homework so they would sear and be gone. Emptiness was hard to make up.

“He had no friends. He didn’t even consider anyone his associate. He would do everything to finish the task. He was fearless. Didn’t trust anybody. He didn’t have most of the feelings humans could produce. And because he was so fearless, some could say that he was very arrogant.”

“Like a robot?”

“Not entirely.” Rumlow lowered his gaze for a moment. He looked sad. “He was always angry. Irritated and defensive.”

‘And you slept with him?’ Bucky wanted to ask. But he changed his mind. Rumlow didn’t want to go to that territory. “What do I do today?”

“You look at me. I’m your today’s mission.”

“Which is?”

Rumlow bit his lower lips. “Protect me?”

Bucky nodded. “That I can do, Squirt. That I will do.”

 

 

 

 

There were two black cars at the Britts Ranch, parked at the ground level facing the hill. Rumlow pulled over at the back of them blocking them from driving away. Rumlow didn’t kill the engine. He just got out, the pistol in his hands, marched to the black vehicles and peered inside. Nothing was there. Rumlow murmured to himself and cocked his head to the house standing on the top of the hill, telling Bucky to get out. Bucky, who had already thrown the goggles and the mask on, stepped off the car and obediently followed.

The front yard was a chaos. About twenty white-feathered and red-feathered chickens were roaming around, spreading their wings, using their toes to scrape the ground in search of something edible. They scratched the dirt and smacked the ground with their yellow beaks, picking up treats and tiny rocks, clucking, and pushing the others out of the way. The animals were hungry. That was obvious enough.

A man with the slim figure was standing amidst the storm of feathers. Bucky noticed the man’s absence of eyebrows and his silver blond ponytail. That had to be Carl. Carl was surrounded by three armed bodyguards. He looked very out of place with his skinny four piece gray suit and long fingers covered by leather white gloves holding an iron bucket full of mixed chicken feed. Josef wasn’t among them.

The ranch house’s door was ajar but the windows were shut. Except for the one Bucky had broken of course. Bucky couldn’t see whether there was anybody inside the house, and he doubted that Josef was even brought along because these guys didn’t care to disarm Rumlow and him.

Bucky was confident that he could easily shoot the bodyguards, grab Carl, and smack some sense into him. He could pluck Carl’s eyes out, one at a time, until the bastard agreed to release Josef. But violence or death threat wasn’t accepted as a proper way to negotiate with HYDRA.

HYDRA worshipers had a gob of wet propaganda posters as a brain. They would shrug at the threat, hail the fucking H, babbled about ‘cutting of one head’, and be ready to climb into a casket. Those actions deserved respect, really, as they were driven by strong loyalty and faith. HYDRA would be easier to tear apart if they were a bunch of cowards.

When Rumlow and Bucky came close enough to him, Carl swept a glance at them and smiled. “Good morning, Crossbones.”

Rumlow stood firmly, legs apart. “Where’s Josef?”

Handing grains and seeds to the flock, Carl was chuckling at the chickens that were fighting for food. “Where’s Winter Soldier?”

Bucky was visible. He was sure he was as visible as the rifle in his hands.

Rumlow frowned at Carl. “He’s here.”

Carl wrinkled his forehead. He looked at Bucky and then Rumlow. “I’m sorry but I don’t trust you, Crossbones. Are you sure you and your boyfriend aren’t trying to deceive me?”

Rumlow winced but immediately showed the calm expression despite the accusatory and the misunderstood relationship. He tilted his head Bucky’s way. “Meet the Winter Soldier. I told you we aren’t boyfriends.”

Carl snickered lightheartedly. “Do you want me to believe that you simply brought Winter Soldier back by saying those words?”

The question sent shivers up Bucky’s spine. What if the brainwashing method was nothing but a bullshit Carl had pulled to test Rumlow’s honesty. If it was, well, now Carl knew that Rumlow was lying. Rumlow said nothing, but the way he squared his jaw told Bucky that Rumlow was thinking about the same theory. Bucky’s hand wrapped around the rifle more tightly. His index finger pressed on the trigger, ready to strike.

Carl poured the remaining of feed on the ground and dropped the bucket. He stepped aside to give way to the chickens that suddenly became berserk. The animals jumped straightly into the pool of whole grain feed as if it were a divine river.

Carl ignores the chickens and turned his face to Rumlow. “Tell Winter Soldier to take the mask off,” he ordered.

“Take the mask off,” Rumlow repeated after Carl.

Carl didn’t call them liars and ended the negotiation, so the trigger words had to be real. Somewhat relieved, Bucky pulled off the goggles. Threw them on the ground. Almost hit a hen. The hen jumped away, and then rushed forward in anger. She clucked and pecked his boot hysterically to punish him for his carelessness. He didn’t shove her away because he wasn’t sure how the legendary Winter Soldier would do to a wrathful vindictive hen in the same situation. Would he glare at her until she dropped dead?

If it was Bucky Barnes? Oh, Bucky Barnes would just shoo her off with his foot like most common folks did and everything would be sunshine.

Bucky took off the ski mask that smelled like an old cabinet, threw it away, and took in the fresh air. Once his face was fully revealed, Bucky stared at Carl and his men threateningly even though he doubted that he would succeed in threatening anyone in the center of hungry birds when the grain party was in full swing.

Not to mention the revengeful hen that was still trying to make a hole in his combat boot.

He was in a very serious, dead-or-alive situation. It should be very, like extremely, tense. But it was so absurd Bucky had to fight himself not to laugh.

Rumlow was looking at the angry bird too, worry crossing over his scarred face. Rumlow had a valid reason to be worried. If the hen pecked at Bucky’s leg instead of his thick boot, he would yelp and Carl would know that they were lying.

The great Winter Soldier wouldn’t yelp in pain, would he?

Winter Soldier screamed though, when the electric current was sent through his body. He would force his tears back and let those fiends freely torture him.

Carl met Bucky’s glare with a more good-humored one. He lifted the corner of his mouth. “Look good. But I’m still not convinced, Mr. Crossbones.”

“I brought Winter Soldier.” Rumlow stood his ground. “Where’s Josef?”

“He’s safe and sound but not here.”

“The deal’s—”

“I know what the deal is,” Carl replied sharply. “It doesn’t involve someone rescuing you.”

“I don’t know why he did it.”

“You don’t know?”

No one was looking at him, so Bucky used this chance to kick his foot and chase the hen away. See? Sunshine.

Rumlow straightened his chest. “He coming to me made my life easier though. I used those words you had given me.”

Carl narrowed his eyes and observed Bucky again. “I still don’t buy it because I can’t believe it works.”

“You gave me those words.”

“Yes, I did. But your Russian was a lost cause.”

Bucky held his breath. He tensed his jaw until his face was as hard as a rock.

To fight the urge to snort.

Bucky had to agree with Carl on this topic. Rumlow’s Russian was a lost cause. Rumlow was too shy to spell it out. Too timid to buzz his tongue. Bucky bet his sweet patootie that Rumlow wouldn’t survive a day in Moscow, even with a good phrasebook.

Carl shrugged and walked to Rumlow. “OK. I believe you. It’s still plausible despite my gut instinct. But, unfortunately, I didn’t bring Josef along because I thought you would fail. I was going to give you another chance. Another mission which, I think, is easier for you.”

Carl pulled a picture from his suit pocket and handed it to Rumlow. Bucky couldn’t see who was in the picture because he couldn’t steal a glance. He had to focus on the task assigned to him, which was being Rumlow’s bodyguard.

“See? The boy is fine. He isn’t even tied.”

“But he was abducted and is being held hostage, jackass. What the fuck do you want me to do?” Rumlow barked.

“You don’t have to be so rude. I just want Captain Rogers dead.” Carl smiled broadly. “In two days. Display the corpse somewhere in public so that it’ll be all over the news and the internet.”

Rumlow pressed his lips together.

Carl widened his eyes. “Why are you making that face, Crossbones? Don’t you want to kill him?”

“I failed once. And I don’t know where he is. He’s in hiding from the government.”

“You can let your friend do it.” Carl gave Bucky a wicked grin. “I’m sure he knows where Captain Rogers is.” Carl touched Rumlow’s arm lightly. “You can stay here and wait for the good news with me.”

Rumlow pulled his arm away.

Bucky aimed the rifle at Carl’s head. The three bodyguards aimed at his.

Carl wasn’t one bit terrified. He just chuckled and stepped back from Rumlow. “It’s OK.” He waved his hand, ordering his bodyguards to lower their weapons. And then, he told them to prepare to leave.

“I will be back in two days,” Carl told Bucky. He looked into Bucky’s eyes and said to him, “I want Steve Rogers’ corpse in two days or there would be somebody else in a box for you to count the organs.”

Carl knew.

Bucky didn’t have to play dumb anymore. Bucky huffed and glared back, but he didn’t find any fear or even anger he could take advantage of in those gray eyes.

“Bye, Crossbones.” The mysterious man waved and walked away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to write a comedy every time it's Bucky POV.... even though the situation isn't good, there is always a little humor in it like when he dare Sam to use chopsticks. Rumlow's POV is always serious and gloomy...


	14. Chapter 14

The smell of citrus and bleach attacked Brock’s nose as soon as he opened the door of the ranch house. Brock put his hand on the wall, found the light switch, and flicked it on. Standing at the narrow entrance which directly connected to the living room and the dining room, he got the clear view of both. Barnes had ruined the dining room’s window, so this area got more sunlight than the rest of the house.

The dining space, which once had been cramped with a wooden square dining table for six people, whitewashed kitchen cabinets, and a cupboard, was now emptied. The large dining table had been moved to the farmost of the living room. The kitchen’s floor and cabinets had been scrubbed clean, probably with a floor cleaner scented with citrus. Everything looked fine and dandy.

Except for the cupboard.

The holes on the cupboard and strong, sweet odor of citrus turned Brock’s stomach.

He trailed his glance away from the cupboard to the lonely living room. The old sofa set surrounded the coffee table. On top of the coffee table was a green plastic bag big enough to put a baby in.

Brock hurriedly crossed the room to the bag. He lifted it up shortly and put the bag down. Opened it.

There laid Diva’s body stuffed in another plastic bag.

Carl might have ordered his men to clean the house and destroy the corpses. But his order hadn’t covered cleaning up and burying the poor dog. Diva had been shot, and her blood-soaked body had been packed carelessly in a damned plastic bag like a piece of dirty garbage. Brock couldn’t decide whether he should first go on a HYDRA killing spree or cry. He swallowed, gathered the bag with his hands, which were trembling with both guilt and anger, and carried Diva’s lifeless body outside.

Barnes had herded the chickens into the coop. He was rubbing his hands when he saw Brock coming out of the house. Brock went to put down the bag at one of the pear trees and walked away to fetch a shovel from the backyard.

When Brock rounded the ranch house with the shovel in his hand, he saw Barnes kneel at the side of Diva, wrapping the tiny body with a piece of cloth that looked like the kitchen’s lace curtain. Brock stuck the shovel into the ground under the pear tree. He uttered his gratitude to Barnes for wrapping Diva up and started digging. Once he finished, Barnes slowly lowered the body into the grave.

“I’m going to kill them all,” Brock growled between his teeth.

“And how.” Barnes stood up. He pulled the shovel from Brock’s hand and filled the hole with soil. “I won’t convince you not to but that evil plan has to wait. We need to get Josef back first.”

“And how?” Brock shot back. “I might have to borrow your pal.”

Barnes turned to him, his jaw hard. “Calm down.”

Brock was going to retort but changed his mind. He folded his arms across his chest, sighed heavily, and bit his lower lip.

“I’ll tell Steve,” Barnes shared the plan.

“Then what? Ask him to die nicely?”

“Steve will help, and we can get useful information from Black Widow.”

Brock snorted. “I don’t think so. Do you remember what I did to him?”

“Yes, I do. Don’t worry. He also hates you,” Barnes snarled. “I don’t know why you went after Steve. He didn’t burn your face because he was so busy drowning. If you want to get even, you’d better get even with me.”

Brock frowned. Although he didn’t mouth the question, Barnes told him anyway.

“I lost the fight. I failed the mission. I remembered who I was and, after rescuing Steve from the river, I turned tail.”

What was Brock supposed to feel?

Stupid.

Brock had the chance to disappear after he had forsaken HYDRA. He was supposedly dead and would never be missed. He could have gone somewhere quiet, changed his identity and carried on with a whole new peaceful life. Instead of that, he had to be a criminal, throwing away every good thing and desperately getting back into the ring of the animal fight.

Did Barnes really think Brock didn’t know that his reckless revenge was crazy? He knew that he had been crazy. Childish and downright idiotic. But he’d done it. He couldn’t change the past, so, whatever the reason was, let’s fuck it.

He felt stupid, not because he was being scolded now but because he always felt stupid. He had a long list of stupid things he had accomplished.

Including having sex with Winter Soldier. And asking Barnes to become Winter Soldier. Couldn’t tell which was more stupid than the other.

“Steve will help the boy. Not you. And that’s good enough for everyone.” Barnes pulled a cell phone out and started typing.

“There’s no signal around here. I can use my cell phone only when I’m close enough to the city,” Brock told him.

“I can use mine,” Barnes said.

Another sweet chance to feel stupid.

Of course, Barnes had the sponsor. He got a safe-house, deadly weapons, a vehicle to wreck, and an entire army of scary women. He shouldn’t have any problems getting an internet access.

“I asked Aneka to contact Steve. They’ll meet us around here at dusk.” Barnes put the phone in his pocket. “I also sent Carl’s license plate. Hopefully, she can track him down soon enough.”

“She can tell us where Carl is heading right now?”

Barnes shot him a look. “She can. But I won’t tell you, Squirt.”

“You won’t?”

“I won’t unless you promise that you wouldn’t go after them recklessly and get yourself into trouble. Or worse.”

Brock bit his jaw. “Don’t treat me like a kid.”

“I’m protecting you,” Barnes said calmly.

“Don’t bother. I’ve survived long enough without you protecting my ass.” Brock raised his voice.

“Listen.”

Brock didn’t listen.

“I wasn’t chosen to be the commander of S.T.R.I.K.E. team because of Pierce’s recommendation. I know I’m not a monster like you and Rogers, but you have no right to look down on me!”

“I’m not looking down on you!” Barnes yelled back. “I know you are good at what you are doing, but I also know you are ready to make a sacrificial move. I’m trying to keep you alive, you stupid fool!”

“I don’t want to be alive. All I want is to slit their throats and get Josef back. Other than that I don’t care about anything.”

“I care!” Barnes yelled.

Brock didn’t expect this.

All he could do was being dumbfounded.

Barnes glared at him somewhat angrily, and then as if the strength had been drained out of him, Barnes sighed and bowed his head. “I care, alright?”

Brock gulped, feeling like he was blamed for not realizing that Barnes cared.

About what?

Brock wanted to ask and felt stupid again for wanting to hear the answer. What would Brock say if Barnes actually said that he cared about Brock? Thank you?

He got what Barnes hinted. He could guess. He just didn’t want to wander there. He didn’t know how and wasn’t ready to try. He was certain that he couldn’t handle what Barnes was offering. Friendship. Hope. Promise. Or what-the-fuck-ever it was. Brock didn’t know James Barnes and vice versa. They were total strangers. Even if Brock remembered many things that Barnes didn’t, the guy in his long lost memory wasn’t James Barnes. It was Winter Soldier. He didn’t understand why Barnes still wanted anything to do with him.

Brock didn’t even know how to respond. He just stood speechlessly, totally dumbstruck.

There was no time for this shit. His shit. Even though this was the first and could be the last time someone wanted him alive hopefully for a good reason.

Brock drew out his breath. “If you want to keep me alive because of those memories you want to know, how about I tell you now and get it over with?”

Barnes observed him. The soldier’s eyes darkened as he was tempted to accept the offer. But Barnes didn’t. Barnes sat down, dragging his knees up and leaning his back against the pear tree. He hung his head and shook it. “I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t understand you either,” Brock countered.

Barnes frowned at him.

“If you just want to face the truth, don’t,” Brock told him.

_Let’s be cowards for once at let it go._

Barnes shook his head again.

“This isn’t even fair. I want to remember it. But you, who don’t want to remember it, are the only one who got it back. Don’t tell me crap about how gross it is. Nothing is uglier than people getting killed. I remember only the faces of those victims and how they died. Heartlessly murdered by me. I would trade places with you anytime if I could remember something else. Something normal men do. Like having sex? You and I, we fucked? So what? Men think about sex all the time, don’t they? If it’s something I chose to do, I’d like to see it. But every day I get stuck thinking about nothing except dead people and how many times I was slapped in the face like a bitch. That’s all I remember of my precious life.”

Barnes sighed. Placing his arms on his knees, he sat silently looking at the chicken coop.

Brock didn’t understand. Barnes had gotten his precious memories back, hadn’t he? If he had completely become James Barnes again, he must remember his childhood, his girlfriends, and all those years of being Steve Rogers’ best buddy. He must remember the days he geared up in uniform, bravely fought for his country among his comrades, and the other things Brock had read about Barnes at the crowded Smithsonian. Why did Barnes want to know the awful things that had happened to Winter Soldier? Brock had seen Barnes as Winter Soldier. There was nothing good enough to cherish. Nothing.

Brock rubbed his face. He watched Barnes, and then chicken coop, and then turned back to Barnes again.

“Do you want to eat?” Brock asked.

Barnes quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I once made fried eggs for Winter Soldier and he told me he liked it. I ended up buying a whole lot of eggs on the next day to make him more fried eggs.” Brock scratched his good ear. “I… I can make dinner if you want.”

Barnes didn’t say anything but Brock walked to the chicken coop anyway. The hens had laid many eggs. Enough to live off for the whole week.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow pace.
> 
> Kill me if the slow pace is killing you because it's also killing me. T v T 
> 
> I want to skip sleeping and write the next chapter...


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky was sitting on the sofa in the living room, holding the cell phone in his right hand. He had taken off his thick leather jacket. It draped casually on the armrest. Bucky pressed the side button to activate the cell phone’s monitor. There weren’t any updates from Aneka.

The time was passing unbearably slowly.

Rumlow stood in front of the big white stove, turning his left side to Bucky. Rumlow tossed the fried eggs lightly, a cigarette hanging idly between his lips.

If Bucky had fancied fried eggs in the past, Bucky didn’t have any memories of it. He wasn’t picky, but surely fried eggs wouldn’t be included in the list of things he would make any special comments of. Winter Soldier had said that he liked fried eggs? Well, that guy hadn’t been in the state of mind to fake any compliments, so, Bucky deduced, Winter Soldier, _or himself_ , must really really like fried eggs.

Or, he just liked everything that was served to him.

By _someone_ in particular.

Whatever Rumlow handed to him, the soldier, _or himself_ , would devour it like it were Baked Alaska. Whipped cream and ice cream.

Although he lost the fried egg part, Bucky did recollect something. He remembered Rumlow carrying a plate to him and their silent conversation at the dining table. They had been at Rumlow’s place in D.C., probably. The room was smaller and darker. They sat at the three piece dining set—square black table and two unmatched wooden arm chairs.

Bucky winced.

He had been detained in the chair.

_Rumlow’s hands clutched the armrests so hard his knuckles were white. And his face..._

Bucky threw a glance at the cooking Rumlow. The agent’s serious face now embossed with the ugly red scars. Bucky asked himself if he’d ever seen Rumlow smile before his face was damaged for life. He might have. Bucky could only blame himself for letting the HYDRA assholes snatch those memories from him. The pictures of Rumlow he could squeeze from his brain were either gray or red. Loneliness and violence. There was no delight in them.

Or.

Rumlow might have never smiled at all.

The smell of heated oil blended with the smell of smoke. The sound of the eggs being cooked in the pan commingled with the tickings of passing seconds.

Bucky remembered himself begging, repeatedly begging.

What had he said to Rumlow on that day?

_Please._

Clearly, he hadn’t begged for fried eggs.

_Please, what?_

A plate filled with fried eggs and sliced ham was placed in front of him as a large body bent down to cast a shadow over his face and shoulders. Bucky lifted his gaze. Rumlow was looking at him, his eyebrows knit tightly creating a short line at the middle. “Why are you making that face?”

Bucky’s lips pressed together shortly and popped. “Nothing.”

Rumlow wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t ask anything else. “Then, act like a good hundred-year-old and go get your own plate.”

Bucky pushed himself to his feet, grumbling, “if I were one hundred years old, I wouldn’t get the food myself. I would be too old to even sit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky stalked into the cooking area and snatched the plate. When he turned around, Rumlow was blocking the way, peering into the refrigerator.

“Milk?”

“No.” Bucky pulled a face although he didn’t know why. “Water’s fine.”

Rumlow gave him a room to walk, and after a few minutes, he joined Bucky at the coffee table. Rumlow placed two glasses of water on the table and sat down on the armchair opposite to Bucky. Bucky grabbed the fork and started eating.

He’d expected that the taste of fried egg would trigger his memory but, disappointingly, nothing popped out. Only the food suited his liking just fine. The eggs were perfect by all means, although they were different from what was served in Wakanda which the white firm but the edge wasn’t frizzled. Rumlow’s fried eggs were crispy, browned bottom, but the yolks were soft and runny, seasoned with salt and pepper.

“You’re making that face again.”

Bucky glanced over the other side of the table just in time to see Rumlow switch his focus to the plate in front of him. Rumlow picked up a piece of ham and dipped it into the egg yolk. He later lifted the ham to his mouth. Chewing slowly, Rumlow didn’t return the gaze.

“What face?”

“Pouting,” Rumlow mumbled.

Bucky stuck his lower lip. “I’m not pouting. I’m irritated.”

“That’s a ten-year-old’s speaking you aren’t qualified to use.”

The humor warmed Bucky up a bit, but it wasn’t soothing enough to put his questioning mind at ease. Bucky put his fork down. “Can I ask you something?”

Rumlow looked at him warily. “Sure.”

“How did I go to your place? Did I know where you live?”

Rumlow was quiet for awhile. “You didn’t go to my place by yourself the first time. I found you in Chinatown. Pierce ordered me to bring you home.” Rumlow paused and then restarted his story with a chuckle. “It was very troublesome. Everybody on the road thought they would get robbed because you wore the black ski mask.”

Bucky smiled. “After that day, I went to your place by myself?”

“Yes.”

“Pierce didn’t wipe me?”

“Not until after we got caught because you didn’t show any signs of rebellion.”

“Did you force me into a chair?”

Rumlow stopped his hand. Frowning at Bucky, the agent put his fork down. Rumlow turned his face to look at a blank space near the wall, inhaled deeply, finally, he let out a long sigh in surrender and reclined against the backrest. “You remember?”

“Not all of it,” Bucky told him. “Did I beg you to fuck me?”

Rumlow gasped. “Where did that come from?”

“I’m just asking because I remember myself begging you.”

“The answer is no.”

“Did I beg to fuck you?”

“No.” Rumlow put his hands up. His face was red. “I’m sorry I told you that we fucked. We didn’t go that far.”

“Are you going to honestly tell me what we did because I’m thinking about every possible way right now.”

“Don’t think about it, please.”

“Don’t ‘don’t’ me. You know damned well that I can’t. We can’t just stop.” Bucky poked at his fried egg. “When your pecker is interested, there’s no easy way to make it wear off. Not by just stop thinking about sex. Because we can’t just stop. You’ll try to think about the most horrifying moment of your life, but your bastard of a brain will slip back to sex at every chance until something else hits hard enough to distract you. We are born to think about sex, men and women alike.”

Rumlow sighed. “Says the man who didn’t even know how to jerk off.”

Bucky quirked an eyebrow, but Rumlow wasn’t looking at him, so he asked instead, “who?”

Rumlow’s eyes shifted left and right while he was debating pros and cons of telling the truth.

“I know how to masturbate,” Bucky insisted.

Rumlow snorted.

“Tell me,” Bucky pressed.

Rumlow thought about it and nodded. “OK.”

Bucky sunk down into the chair, holding his breath.

“When I brought you home for the first time, I was bored. I was kind of curious about your being in the laboratory, like what you ate or how you peed. And then, I thought that they might not allow you to jerk off at all, and I thought it was very unfair. I told you that it was OK to jerk off at my place and gave you a Playboy magazine.”

“A what?”

“Pornographic magazine.” Rumlow winced. “I broke every policy giving you the magazine.”

Bucky laughed. “Did Pierce know about it?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Bucky snorted. “So he didn’t know that I remembered boobies and pussies, huh?”

Rumlow expressed an unsure smile. “You didn’t remember boobies and pussies. You didn’t even open the magazine.” Rumlow picked his nose. Paused. “You didn’t know how to use it. So, so, I kind of put my hands on you instead.”

Rumlow bent forward. He put his elbows on his knees and leaned his forehead against the back of his hands. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky interpreted the message quickly. “You jerked me off?”

“Yes.”

_Wow._

“Did I get off?”

Rumlow buried his face in his palms. “Yes.”

_Good to know._

Bucky was sure it must have ended pretty quick, given that he hadn’t been touched for years. Bucky was surprised that he wasn’t even upset by the fact that he had had sex with a man. He had thought that he would have felt at least disturbed or weird. He didn’t. It might be because he didn’t really remember it, so it was like listening to a ghost story. It was rather interesting. And watching Rumlow’s face turned a lot of shades was a plus. It must be hard on Rumlow, though, because the Squirt remembered how deep he had been involved in the activity.

“Did we do it only once?”

Rumlow shook his head. “I taught you twice. You did it on your own the next time you went to my place.”

Rumlow looked away, pulling his short hair on the back of his head. His breath was shuddering while Bucky was waiting silently and still.

Bucky would ask for more only if Rumlow seemed comfortable to share some more. Bucky got what he had wanted to know. Even though, he wanted to ask if they’d enjoyed it, and, more importantly, if Rumlow had enjoyed it, or Rumlow just did it out of pity, Bucky didn’t want to make Rumlow edgy. Knowing the reason would have to suffice.

He didn’t take his eyes from Rumlow, though. Flush crept across the scarred face which was occupied by uneasiness. Rumlow bit his lips, parted them, and bit again. Rumlow looked up and met Bucky’s gaze, and turned away, his shoulders sinking. “Fuck…” Rumlow drew in a deep breath.

After that, Rumlow started to speak. He told Bucky everything.

Rumlow told Bucky about Winter Soldier’s next visit, their action on the bed, and another round in the morning. Rumlow didn’t go into details, just saying that he’d put his hands and mouth on Bucky. Rumlow blushed and shook his head repeatedly, telling Bucky about them going to the supermarket, Rumlow letting Winter Soldier choose what to have for breakfast, and them wounding up buying thirty eggs. Rumlow had asked Bucky to join HYDRA willingly so that Bucky wouldn’t be tortured anymore. At the end of the story, HYDRA troop had brought them back to the laboratory where Pierce had been waiting.

Bucky knew the next part which Rumlow didn’t. But Rumlow didn’t ask.

The only thing that was bugging Bucky was that Rumlow poured the story out like he was confessing a crime. Rumlow constantly apologized.

“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Rumlow said it again.

“Why?”

Rumlow frowned at him.

“Why are you sorry, Squirt? Because I’m not so sorry. From what I’ve heard, thank you very much, sounds like I was well taken care of,” Bucky said, feeling somewhat irritated. He had gotten a glorious blowjob in the morning, he bet he had enjoyed it because he hadn’t punched Rumlow in the face.

“You weren’t in your right mind. And I… I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you,” Rumlow stuttered.

“You think you took advantage of me? That’s ridiculous.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I was stronger than you. If I didn’t want you feeling me up or giving me head, I would have cracked your skull.”

“You weren’t in your right mind,” Rumlow repeated. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I didn’t have a choice?” Bucky threw back instantly. “I didn’t have a choice of what, Rumlow? I didn’t have a choice of whom I slept with?”

So, this guy thought Bucky had turned to him because Bucky didn’t have a fucking choice? That he had made Bucky so addicted to sex if Bucky again wanted to taste the new found long lost pleasure, Bucky would have to go find him? That he should have known better and put the end to the sexual acts but he had continued having sex with Bucky? And, because of that, he had committed a crime equally disgusting to sexual abuses committed against children?

Well, that was brilliant.

Rumlow turned away from Bucky’s glare and said, “it wasn’t even you.”

“It was me. I remembered clearly well what I did.”

“No, he wasn’t you,” Rumlow countered. He sat straightly and frowned deeply at the floor.

Bucky wanted to throw things.

“I’ll tell you what he was like. He rarely talked. He didn’t ask a question, just doing what he had been told. He was as quiet as a doll. He never joked. Not amusing like you.” Rumlow lifted the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look at Bucky, so it was like he was smiling to himself.

“He didn’t have friends nor any people he could rely on. He was always alone. Can you imagine yourself being slapped? There were neither rewards nor praises from Pierce. The only things he got from that fuckface were punishment and torment. I’ve been asking myself why he didn’t flee. He was stronger than everybody there. But every time he was ordered to get on the electroshock chair, he crawled up on it obediently. He accepted the gum-shield into his mouth and suppressed the tears. His chest heaved, waiting for the terror to strike.

“I heard him scream so loud, so painfully.” Rumlow looked at Bucky. He bit his jaw hard. His face contorted with anger and disgust. “And I walked away. Like, a million times.”

In Rumlow’s eyes, there was a cloud of sorrow darker than a corner of a deep grave.

Bucky remembered the assholes that were watching him. He remembered the irritation and unfairness he had felt. He remembered the pain and the suffering. But Rumlow... Rumlow remembered the events of abuse. His eyes had mirrored the terror Bucky had been too anguished to absorb. Rumlow had been forced to watch HYDRA treat Winter Soldier with shockingly cruelty, and Rumlow had had to endure the sight. He had been carrying the guilt of just helplessly standing and watching the person he cared about suffer.

“He didn’t choose. That’s why I’m saying he didn’t have a choice. Not until you regained your body,” Rumlow said quietly. His voice low and shattering. “I should have let him go or talked some sense into him so he would remember who he was. You. So he could decide what to do with his life. But I didn’t. I kept him. I used him. I hated what Pierce did to him, yet I did exactly the same thing Pierce did.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help him, or you, back then. Although I wanted to meet him again, I’m glad he was gone. He’s finally free.” Rumlow’s lips curled up. “You are too.”

A free man.

“You should let it go.” Rumlow grabbed the glass of water and swallowed down the drink.

They sat there quietly for a long while. Bucky tried to comprehend what Rumlow had said. He tried to believe it and admit that Winter Soldier and himself weren’t the same person. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t any connections with Rumlow at all. He was James Barnes, and James Barnes’ world had never collided with Brock Rumlow’s.

He had tried and he failed.

He didn’t want to let anything and anyone go.

“Let me tell you something you don’t remember,” Bucky said.

Rumlow tilted his head up.

“After they dragged you and me into the laboratory to face Pierce’s rage, they knocked you over so badly. I was enraged. I broke free from the chair, but before I could break some bones, they threatened to blow your head off.” Bucky licked his lips. “They told me to sit down, so I sat down.” He smirked at Rumlow. “Pierce laughed so hard he almost pissed himself.”

“You...”

“Yes. I.” Bucky interrupted. “You told me yourself that I had become James Barnes before we were captured, so, yes, that guy who dropped back into the chair for you was me.”

Rumlow gulped but didn’t say anything.

“Hey. Listen.” Bucky reached over trying to seize Rumlow’s hand. Rumlow was startled and drew back.

A flashback hit Bucky hard he was almost knocked down from the chair.

It was another way around of the present.

_Rumlow sat opposite to him and reached over. Bucky, or Winter Soldier, was freaked out and leaned away. Winter Soldier hurt Rumlow’s feeling by getting freaked out. Rumlow moved back and promised._

_I’m not going to hit you. I will not._

The promise Rumlow had never broken.

The memory was replayed in his head many times, and the memory extended. Bucky body heated up as he saw himself being led to Rumlow’s bedroom by the elbow. He felt the mattress press into his back, and he arched his body so that Rumlow could take his clothes off. One by one, the fabric was swept away by the light touch. He felt Rumlow’s eyes on his lips.

The memory ended there.

It annoyingly left behind the urge to pull someone down for a kiss.

But it ended there.

Bucky was stunned by the flashback he wasn’t sure how many minutes had passed.

Rumlow stood up. His face paled. “We should get going.” Rumlow gathered the plates and carried them to the kitchen.

Bucky got up and followed. He seized Rumlow’s arm with his right hand as the man was dropping the plates into the sink, making Rumlow startled. Rumlow frowned at him and tried to break free.

As if he could.

“Stop wriggling. You know you can’t pull away.” Bucky tightened the grip.

Rumlow went for another try only to give up later because Bucky was right. Bucky didn’t even need the cybernetic arm to secure Rumlow in place. His natural hand alone could easily flip and toss Rumlow like he did a coin. And he did. Flipped Rumlow over so Rumlow rested his hip on the edge of the sink.

Rumlow promptly stepped to the right but the cybernetic arm mercilessly blocked his escape route.

“You know who is to blame, kid.” Bucky smirked. HYDRA had given him the super strength and enhanced speed. Why not use the abilities to tease its ex-agent? “Now, you listen to me.”

Rumlow grumbled something unintelligible. Bucky ignored it.

“I am Winter Soldier. I don’t care what you think because I am him as much as he is me,” Bucky started. “I might be a nutjob I couldn’t save my own ass. But I started to choose because of you. I think I went to you not because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I could go back to the laboratory, but, no, that place was a prison for me. I went to you because you were the better choice. The best choice I had. You gave me a taste of normal life asking me what to have for breakfast and all. It’s normal, but it’s also freedom. You were gentle with me. I owe you for many things. What you did is greater than you give yourself credit for.”

Rumlow’s expression changed from annoyance to anxiety, anxiety to confusion.

“Don’t you ever blame yourself for what HYDRA did to me. It started so long ago. Long before you were born. It was as old as an evil. And, admit it, you alone were too weak to kill the evil that had lived for a decade. So was I. I wasn’t strong enough to resist or break myself free. You should have been scared but you were very brave to try, Squirt. I owe you.”

“I’m not… I didn’t...” Rumlow’s come back trailed off. The confusion on his face drastically changed into embarrassment. The big guy being shy was adorable.

“I perfectly know what I’m doing. I know who I am. I got my life back. But it doesn’t mean that I have to leave everything I had with you behind.”

Bucky touched Rumlow’s wrist. Rumlow didn’t pull away, so Bucky wrapped his fingers around it.

“It doesn’t mean that I have to leave you. We will get Josef back. Together.”

He had said enough. And he hoped that it was clear enough. He stepped back and gave Rumlow the room to escape. But Rumlow didn’t. Rumlow turned away, rubbing his wrist where he had been touched. “But I’m a murderer.”

Bucky looked at him. “Do we have to have this conversation again?”

“But I am,” Rumlow swallowed.

It was a big hole to cover.

“Button your lip, Squirt. It’s time to get rolling.” Bucky walked out of the kitchen. “I’m going to meet Aneka.”

“I’m going with you.”

“She might bring someone you aren’t allowed to meet. You stay here.” Bucky rolled his finger at the sofa. “Let’s get the boy back first. After that, you and I have a business to discuss.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was down with food poisoning for a week and I still got the job done... *vomits blood*  
> I can tell you that the story will end in 3 or 4 chapters and we still don't see any romances.  
> Can I count this chapter as a romance? I had intended to but it ended up sad instead...


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon! I'm back. I'm sorry for not updating for too long. No excuses or in Japanese words... Moushiwakenai. T_T In October, all of sudden, I started another writing challenge, finished the 100 page long piece of work and also the proofing so, I'm back. Punish me if you must. (Q wQ ||)
> 
> I promised one of the readers I would write this story everyday on my week-long vacation. I will try my best! (without my good old laptop which recently short-circuited and just died..............)

Bucky drove the jeep to the vacant grass field just shy of Belfield City where he and Aneka had promised to meet. Bucky was frustrated and worried that Rumlow wouldn’t wait for him to return. He would have locked or tied Rumlow up if that could calm himself down a little bit. But Bucky knew too well that locks and ropes couldn’t hold Rumlow down even for a few minutes. Bucky would have to go so far as sedating Rumlow, only that could make the ex-HYDRA sleeper agent stay exactly right where Bucky wanted him.

The look on Rumlow disfigured face spoke a volume about how much he wanted this mess to end, with Josef harmlessly returned to his sister, no matter what the cost.

Rumlow giving in and sharing the memories with Bucky stabbed a sharp pang of anxiety into Bucky’s chest. Rumlow told him the story of their past, Bucky believed, because Rumlow felt empathetic to Bucky after hearing the reason why Bucky had longed to know the episode of his missing life that wasn’t about lethal attacks on people. But the act of resignation should not be overlooked.

Rumlow was giving away everything he had. Apart from Ester and Josef, Rumlow couldn’t anymore care less about anything else, especially himself. Despite his discomfort with Bucky and their past affair, Rumlow surrendered and told Bucky everything. He made amends and asked for forgiveness which Bucky promptly gave. Bucky gave Rumlow more than forgiveness. Bucky offered help. He offered something more than the help too. Rumlow didn’t reject Bucky’s aid to get Josef back from the kidnappers, but Rumlow didn’t fancy that something else Bucky offered. Rumlow’s only goal was saving the kids, and after Ester and Josef were home safe and sound… What would happen between them? A painful aftermath or a happily ever after? Nothing mattered because, no, Rumlow wasn’t looking forward to any kinds of future he wouldn’t be around to see.

Bucky knew that feeling too well because he had been feeling the same way since he was woken up. He had lost the purpose of living and the will to breathe for a lot longer. He didn’t want to do anything. He didn’t want to think about anything. He didn’t have anyone to live for. Steve? No. Bucky thought that both of them should have passed away like normal folks did. The only thing that from time to time sparked an interest in him was the memory of Rumlow. He was ready to escape this abnormal world until he heard from Aneka that Brock Rumlow was still alive. At that moment, he too became alive.

Now that Bucky found the way out of hopelessness, the only person that could give him that way out was ready to die.

_I’m a murderer._

Rumlow believed that he didn’t deserve a future. He believed that he deserved to die. Bucky couldn’t let that happen but he didn’t know how. They were both tired, too tired of every guilt-ridden minute and being controlled.

_Who cares? I’m a freaking murderer too. Who cares?_

Maybe Sergeant James Barnes cared.

He in the past would care about law and order. About great and glorious justice. But Bucky had lived in chaos for too long, all he cared, all he hoped for, was reduced to just a moment he could be completely selfish and happy. A moment was good enough.

Unfortunately, to a man with conscience, that moment wouldn’t come so easily.

 

 

Aneka and Okoye were waiting for Bucky in front of a small jet. Their master, the older woman said, was inside in case Bucky brought someone or he was followed. She led him inside, leaving Okoye to guard the jet.

“We haven’t known about Josef yet,” Aneka told him, “but we have news for you.”

The king was watching the news. He silently invited Bucky to sit. “They aren’t HYDRA.”

“Who’s they?”

“Those guys you’re hunting.” T’Challa jerked his chin to the television. “HYDRA just declared that they don’t know anything about the recruiting. The statement is all over the internet right now.”

“We don’t know who took Josef. We only know that they are someone who want Steve Rogers dead,” Aneka added, “which means a lot of candidates.”

“They know about me,” Bucky said. “They gave Rumlow the ten Russian word trigger that was used to hypnotize me. Who could they be if they aren’t HYDRA?”

“They have those words?” T’challa quirked his brow.

“I can write the words down so you can compare them with those keywords written in the notebook. But I think they are real. The language and the number of words match.”

“Who else knows about these words?” Aneka thought a little. “We know. HYDRA knows. Helmut Zemo?”

Bucky disagreed. “Zemo is still in custody. He is more loner-typed. I don’t think he is trusting enough to hire anyone.”

“They could be Crossbones and his crews.”

Bucky looked at the King.

“He knows about you, and he wants Captain Rogers dead more than anyone else.”

“No. Not Rumlow.” Bucky shook his head. “He wouldn’t involve the kids.”

“I agree with Mr. Barnes,” Aneka backed him up. “Crossbones looked real worried when he reunited with the girl.”

They fell into silence. Bucky read the letters on the monitor.

HYDRA DENIED INVOLVEMENT.

Aneka crossed her arms across her chest. She tapped her fingers on her fine skin. “The government knows about you too. And they once owned the notebook Captain Rogers stole.”

“The government?”

T’challa thought about it. “They too want Captain Rogers.”

“That’s ridiculous. Those bastards kidnapped children and almost raped the girl. The government wouldn’t go that far.” Bucky flicked his hair up. “Did you call Steve?”

“We can’t locate Captain yet but we’ve already asked Miss Romanoff for help,” Aneka reported.

A cell phone on the coffee table vibrated. She picked it up. “Mr. Barnes. They found the boy.”

Hope swelled in Bucky’s chest. “Where’s he?”

“He’s still in Watford.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Nothing felt more out of control than waiting.

Brock was sitting at the back door, facing the backyard, his face shadowed by a wooden shade. Feeling so nervous, he unconsciously, occasionally shook his legs. He placed his hands together rubbing the hard knuckles featuring a scratch wound or two. His eyes wandered to the thin line yonder where the clear sky met the earth, while the layer of hot air was grinding against the young leaves and buds of the herb trees and shrubs. The house was so quiet as it had never been before.

His unsettling mind leaped back to the small apartment he had rented in Washington, D.C.

Brock had never once thought of his life as very lifeless. But it was. The room wasn’t as quiet as the Britts Ranch at the present. There were a lot of noises. Outside of the room, people greeted each other, gossiped, and sometimes fought. Children ran around and laughed out loud. He had never considered his place devastatingly gloomy. But it was. Inside of the apartment was just like inside of his heart. There were four rooms and nothing else. There was no one except himself. There was no trace of family nor friends, not one person he found worth associating with.

Capital-lettered no.

Up until Winter Soldier’s intrusion.

Brock’s boring soul became painted with colors. The dying straight line was for the first time drawn into heartbeat wave. Cooking for someone, doing laundry for someone, arguing about breakfast, for a tool like him, a cold-hearted flame used only to burn things, those chores mundane for some could happen only in a fantasy. Touching and making love were like hell and heaven. A lot of people said they existed but this tool—this fool—had never seen any.

Brock held close to his heart that chance of living like a person and got attracted to it so badly.

By Pierce, Brock was woken up so fast so cruelly. Remembered nothing.

He could blame Pierce for the lost memories, but not for the lost chance. He himself was to blame for that. And he was to blame again for, after HYDRA’s downfall, not going down with it. It was another chance, more permanent, to step on a new path. Instead of a human being, he chose to be Crossbones, a piece of shit damned by God and every being.

_Why?_

_You piece of shit. Why?_

How sad to admit that revenge was less meaningless than everything he woke up to see. Even though every minute left the bitter taste in his mouth, revenge gave him a reason to live and a reason to die.

He had ruined the second chance but he was trying his best to save the third.

What was God thinking, giving him the third anyway? But he cherished it. He finally felt grateful of life. Ester and Josef taught him how to appreciate every little thing in life, something as simple as a dog wagging its tail.

Happiness made men careless. It was naive of him to think that once he stopped doing bad things, he could start with a clean slate. The consequence was on his heels like day followed night. The consequence was the sunlight that slowly showed what had happened in the shadow. When he finally saw the light coming, it had come too close to fend off. Because he held the children too tightly, they got burned with him.

He would save Ester and Josef.

In the end, he found the best reason to live, the best reason to die.

Brock couldn’t wait any longer.

Brock heard an engine sound come from the front of the house. He got up and went to the front door carrying the gun in his hand. He hoped to see Barnes coming back, but he got a big surprise.

A Harley-Davidson model motorcycle ran toward the front yard and stopped at the foot of the hill. The man on the Harley-Davidson had short blond hair, a strong, stubborn jaw, and a pair of sharp eyes that could only look straight forward. A fugitive or not, Captain Rogers looked as sure of himself and annoying as he had always been.

“Rumlow?”

“Cap. Why are you here?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“My friend. Bucky Barnes.”

Brock licked his lips and gulped.

Brock saw that Rogers wasn’t carrying his Captain America’s shield. The agent also knew that Rogers was never equipped with any weapons. It was a good chance to capture Cap to trade for Josef. The problem was, Carl didn’t want Rogers alive. He wanted the dead body. Someone had to kill Rogers. Barnes would oppose it, of course, but if Aneka and her team couldn’t find Josef in time, it wouldn’t hurt to have a plan-B.

Saving the bloody part for later, Brock had to catch Rogers first. But how?

“Your pal isn’t here.”

Cap frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

Brock sneered. “I sent him out to do something.”

Cap’s frown became deepened. “You sent him out?”

Brock leveled the gun to Cap’s face. “That’s right, Cap. He isn’t your Bucky anymore. He’s mine.”

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Two chapters added at once! My vacation days is going to end soon. *sob* Wish you all a good weekend.

Fuck.

Chills crept down Bucky’s spine as he saw Steve’s motorcycle at the foot of the hill. There was no one in sight. He stopped the jeep and hurriedly got off. Before he could advance to the hill, he heard a loud noise from the house. It sounded like a wooden wall being smacked down. Bucky ran to the ranch house. He almost pulled the door out of the frame.

The gun was at the far end of the living room. The armchair and the coffee table were in disarray. Rumlow was on the floor, blood soaking his temple and oozing out of his nose. Steve loomed over Rumlow.

Steve’s face was painted with red. His jaw squared. His muscular chest heaved, pumping in and out heavy breath mixed with outrage and heat. Rumlow, on the other hand, had a wicked smile on his face. Those dark eyes shining with pleasure looked rather provoking and dangerous.

Both of them turned to Bucky at once.

“Bucky!” Steve cried out.

“What are you doing here, Steve?”

“Nat told me about this place, so I came to look for you.”

Bucky observed the bloody mess on Rumlow’s face and the stain on Steve’s knuckles. Rumlow rubbed his nose and turned away as if embarrassed.

“What happened?”

They fought, obviously. None of them said anything to clarify the cause.

Bucky walked to Rumlow and offered a hand. Rumlow didn’t take it. Instead, Bucky’s hand was captured in Steve’s.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.

“I’m helping him up.”

Steve looked at him, astounded. “He said you were hypnotized. Again.”

Rumlow pinched the tip of his nose. “I didn’t say he was hypnotized. I said he was with me. Ain’t the same thing.” The Squirt expressed a lopsided grin.

Bucky suppressed a sigh. “We have to go. I know where Josef is.”

His words immediately caught Rumlow’s attention. Rumlow was going to pull himself up, but Steve stepped forward and shoved the agent back down.

“Steve…,” Bucky tried to explain.

“Who’s Josef?” Steve asked.

“He’s a kid who lives here. He was kidnapped by the neo-HYDRA you saw on the news. We are trying to get him back.”

“We? Like you and him?”

“Josef is Rumlow’s kid. Not actually his, but Rumlow lives here with Josef and his sister,” Bucky said. He pulled his cell phone out of his pants’ pocket. His finger swept across the monitor. “Aneka found where they took Josef. This is the address. The kidnappers keep him in Watford.”

“Aneka knows about this? I bet her master knows too.” Steve looked hurt. “You guys kept this a secret from me?”

“Not now, Steve.” Bucky waved him off. He met Rumlow’s eyes and nodded. “We gotta go.”

“No. Rumlow isn’t going anywhere.” Steve put his large body between Bucky and Rumlow. “I will help you get the kid back but before that, I’ll call Wanda to take Rumlow in.”

“I sure need your help, Steve. But Rumlow is going with us.”

Steve crossed his arms. “No way.”

They heard the sound of knee knocking on the floor. Rumlow ran for the gun. Steve went after him and was able to pin Rumlow down before Rumlow could get the weapon. Steve’s arms wrapped around Rumlow’s neck and squeezed tightly. Rumlow tried to fight off but with little avail. Without any weapons and combat suits, he couldn’t compete with the great Captain America.

Bucky grabbed Steve and threw both of them rolling on the floor. Steve let go of Rumlow’s neck but still secured Rumlow’s body to the wooden floor.

“What are you doing?” Steve yelled at Bucky.

“We have no time for this,” Bucky yelled back.

“You know that I can’t let him loose. I will help you with whatever you want to do, but let me call Wanda first.”

“I won’t let you take him.”

“Are you crazy, Bucky?” Steve winced painfully. “Don’t you remember who he is? He used you. He tried to kill me. And because of his stupid move, many people died.”

“I know what he did. I know he tried to take a revenge on you, but he also tried to save me. Once.”

Steve demanded the explanation. Bucky was going to tell him, but Rumlow’s hoarse voice interrupted the conversation.

“You can take me in.” Bucky and Steve dropped their eyes to Rumlow. Rumlow was panting, facing the floor. “After we get Josef back, I’ll go with you. I promise.”

Bucky could see that Steve was taken aback by Rumlow’s surrendering.

“I promise,” Rumlow repeated and begged. “Could we just go to save the boy first, please?”

Steve was still confused, but when Bucky nodded, Steve let go of Rumlow and stood up.

Rumlow did the same. He eyed Steve warily, threw his gaze to the gun, but didn’t make any moves to pick it up.

Two shots rang out.

The bullets came through the back window. Rumlow fell down. Steve lowered himself and took cover. Bucky rolled over to the window and looked out. A troop of men in arm suits was surrounding the backyard. Bucky kicked Rumlow’s gun to Steve, who seized it. Bucky watched the armed men closing in through the corner of his eye. He asked his friend, “do you have any more weapons?”

“You know me, pal,” Steve answered.

“I know you are a nutter,” Bucky barked back. “Is he alright?”

“Breathing.”

Rumlow was shot in the shoulder. He moaned painfully, pulling his hands to the sides of his chest to lift his shuddering body up.

“You stay right there, Squirt. You stay right there,” Bucky ordered. Steve frowned at the nickname, but Bucky didn’t care. He cocked his head. “Let’s go get them.”

Steve couldn’t agree more. Bucky stalked to the door. He signaled his friend to come close. He slowly pulled the door open wide enough to throw a grenade into the backyard. He heard shouting before the grenade did its job. The old house was shaken by the explosion, but it still stood. Bucky used his shoulder to open the door and stepped out.

The shooting started.

Steve took cover behind the door. Steve managed to get two men down before he followed Bucky outside. Even without the shield, the fight was a piece of cake for him. For them.

Up til...

“Sergeant Barnes.”

A familiar voice came from the house. Bucky looked back at the window.

Carl was there, thrusting a gun to the back of Rumlow’s head.

“Drop your weapons, soldiers,” Carl ordered. “Or I’ll blow his head off.”

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Long time no see. I'm back. I'm so sorry I didn't update for so long. (I had to write another book. Just finished it last week. T_T)  
> But this time I will finish this story for sure. It will end in the next few chapters.  
> There will be a super-hero event in my hometown. I'll present winterbones there.  
> It might be a small ship not many people cares about but still... might be fun. XD
> 
> Thank you for every kudos, comments and visitation!

Brock blinked at the white light that was piercing his eyes painfully like a needle digging into his skin. The light was flickering, thanks to the blades of a ceiling fan that were moving too slowly. Brock let out an irritated low groan and blinked again. His body hurt. His head was ticking like a time bomb.

“Uncle Brock!”

Brock heard a familiar voice and the sound of hurrying footsteps coming his way. When he turned his head, he found Josef standing by his side. Josef’s hair was matted and spiked with sweat. The young face was pale, with shadows under the angry blue eyes. Josef seemed agitated but as far as Brock could tell, the boy hadn’t been harmed. Josef was wearing the same clothes he had worn on the day he was kidnapped.

“How are you feeling, Uncle Brock? You were shot.”

And hit on the head at some point.

Brock winced and looked at his shoulder. The right shoulder was wrapped in a clean bandage. His T-shirt was gone. The bed sheet and the pillow splotched with blood. The room had a small barred window, the single bed he was lying in, a chair, and two doors.

“Do you want some water?” Josef asked. The young lad reached down to pick up a bottle of drinking water. “Carl wrapped you up and said that you’d feel thirsty when you woke up.”

“Carl?” Before Brock could ask the boy anything, one of the doors swung open. Carl walked in. Brock growled and tried to get up fast, but his recently wounded body betrayed him. The right hand lost its strength, sending him slipping back onto the bloody mattress. Brock’s eyes flashed with rage. As always, Carl met him with the gray eyes as cold and calm as snowflakes.

“We have to go,” Carl said.

“Where is Barnes?”

“There is no Sergeant Barnes. Not anymore. We have to go,” Carl repeated.

“What do you mean...” Brock’s forehead furrowed. But then, he realized. “You son of a bitch! Did you—”

“I used the trigger,” Carl said. “Aren’t you happy? You got your soldier back. He’s cracking Cap’s skull right now.”

Brock gritted his teeth, and, with Josef’s help, sat up. “Who are you? Where are you going to take us?”

“Does it matter?”

“If you treated my wound, yes, it matters.” Brock swung his legs out of the bed. “You aren’t HYDRA. Am I right? There are no prisoners with HYDRA. Those pricks never save lives, especially not the lives of somebody they see as unfit. They only stick their boners in someone’s anguish.”

Brock looked Carl in the eyes. He saw that his insult stirred a dander inside those ice balls. Carl bit his lower lip. His poker face finally had some colors.

“I was a HYDRA member.” Carl lifted his chin. “And I did save a life. I saved it twice.” He glanced at the wound on Brock’s shoulder and shrugged. “Thrice, if you count that makeshift bandage.”

Brock’s frowned deepened. “What do you mean you saved my life?”

“I was a doctor. You were a sleeper agent back then, so we didn’t get any chances to meet until...”

“Until I was dragged to the base and smitten to near-death?”

Carl nodded. A stiff smile crawled up his face. “I treated you and called in sick for you using your voice.”

“And the second time?”

“HYDRA hauled your body out of the Triskelion and brought you to me.”

“And you did what? Raised me from the death?”

Carl bit his lip again.

“If you saved my life, how come I have never seen your face? When I came back from hell for the second time, you weren’t there.”

Carl smiled. “If I’d been there, I’d have been dead. Lucky me.”

The smile disappeared, replaced with a bitter scowl. “I was by your side when you opened your eyes, Crossbones. After I’d tended your wounds, they took you away. They messed with your head. They erased all useless memories and installed heinous ones.”

Breath caught in Brock’s lung. “They did that to me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But… But I remember everything. I remember that I fought with Wilson just before the Triskelion collapsed,” Brock said.

Carl came closer. “Do you remember what you told Rogers in Lagos?”

Brock swept his eyes across the floor. What did he say? He remembered ‘you son of a bitch’ pretty well but the other things? “I told him about Barnes.”

“You told him that you’d met Barnes and you passed Barnes’ message to him.” Carl took a deep breath. “The message was ‘when you gotta go, you gotta go.’”

The confusion clouded Brock’s face. He said that, didn’t he? He told Rogers about HYDRA brainwashing the soldier. But. When did he meet Winter Soldier? From whom did he hear that message? What does that mean?

“Pierce said that. You shouldn’t have believed yourself because Winter Soldier doesn’t weep,” Carl told him. “HYDRA fixed your brain so you’d resent Barnes and take revenge on Rogers. When the government showed me the video clip, I knew right then—”

“What?” Brock interrupted. “The government? You said you were HYDRA.”

“I was. We were all prosecuted. I was in jail when they gave me this job. To get Rogers. Every HYDRA agent wanted a piece of Captain America but they refused to work for the government. The government was searching for you too so that if they failed to convince HYDRA, they could use you. So, I told them that I’d take the job and handle you myself.” Carl waved his hand. “Now. Let’s go.”

Josef stepped in. “Are you going to give Uncle Brock up?”

Carl looked at the boy then shook his head. “No, boy. I want to save him even though he’s a suicidal idiot. Could you help your Uncle Brock to the car, please?”

Brock stood and pulled Josef back. “I don’t trust you,” He growled, glaring at Carl.

Carl met Brock’s scowl with the fiercer glare. “No, you don’t. You don’t even remember me. You don’t have to trust me. Just listen.”

“If you wanted to help me, why did you involve the kids?”

“I put my neck on the line. I had to play my part or I’d die. Don’t be so selfish.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

Carl looked at Brock and then he turned his face away, mumbling, “I’m a suicidal idiot then.”

The doctor walked to the door. “Like it or not. We have to go now before they find out where we are and come to claim their prizes.”

“Prize? You mean the soldier?”

“Plus your corpse.” Carl reluctantly smiled. “And mine.”

Before Brock could decide whether he cooperated or knocked Carl out, he heard men scream. Smacking sounds and violent thuds exploded from the lower floors. The sound came closer and closer. Before Carl could step away from the wooden door, the door was smashed open. The door hit Carl and he fell.

Captain America, which was now devoid of the stealth uniform and the shield, stood at the wrecked door frame. Although Rogers’ head was still intact, his face didn’t have the same luck. It was covered with misery and fresh injuries. Blood oozed from his nose. The right eyelid was cut, and the eye almost closed. His jacket was defiled with blood and slits.

Carl took out his gun but Rogers was faster. Captain America kicked Carl, snatched the gun, and threw it to the corner.

Rogers looked at Brock and Josef behind him. Brock knew that he hadn’t a dog’s chance of winning against the great Captain America, however, with only one arm, Brock prepared for the strike.

Rogers didn’t attack.

“Where’s your buddy?” Brock asked.

Rapid gunshots roared from the lower floors. There he was.

“How can I stop him?” Rogers asked, panting.

Brock shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Rogers lifted Carl’s body up by the collar. “Tell me how to stop him!” But Carl didn’t respond.

“We need to get out of here.” Brock went to the other door, dragging Josef with him. The door only led to a dark toilet. Brock tried the barred window next, but the bars didn’t yield.

“We are on the fifth floor,” Josef breathlessly told him. “We can’t jump.”

Brock turned his face to the last and the bleakest escape—the ruin of the door—which Rogers was still blocking.

Brock’s eyes widened when he saw a dark shadow.

A shadow of the grievous legend.

Fearless and immortal, the bogeyman itself was holding two machine guns.

“Cap, get down!” Brock yelled. He did the same thing, pulling the boy down with him. Shots rang out. Rogers let go of Carl and took shelter behind the wall. Carl’s body jerked before it dropped to the floor. Brock curled around Josef. He watched blood seep through Carl’s shirt, soul seep out of Carl’s body.

After a while, Winter Soldier stopped shooting. Brock heard the sound of machine guns hitting the floor, but the sound didn’t guarantee safety. Who knew, the soldier might have used up all the bullets, or he was just too bored of the guns. Either way, Winter Soldier still had death attached to his shoulder. Brock had watched the soldier kill with bare hands in the past. Even fully equipped Captain America had barely pulled through. Now, Rogers didn’t have his shield. Brock didn’t even have his arms. They had the smallest chance to survive, if they had the chance at all.

The soldier entered the room nervelessly. The black figure was holding a combat knife. The blue stare swept the floor and found Rogers first.

“Bucky!” Rogers tried his luck but his voice couldn’t break the old curse. Instead, Winter Soldier plunged at him.

Rogers grabbed the door and threw it at his friend. Winter Soldier dropped the knife and punched the door. The metal hand struck through, but it got stuck. Rogers kicked the wooden board, but he didn’t have enough room to throw a powerful strike. Winter Soldier didn’t back away. The soldier lifted the door and smashed it down on Rogers’ head. The fierce killer then took hold of Rogers’ neck and squeezed.

The prosthetic arm creaked and squeaked as the blue eyes blazed with hatred and the young face contorted with anger. Rogers fumbled with Winter Soldier’s wrist, trying to shove the soldier back, but even with both hands, he couldn’t compete with Winter Soldier’s strength.

Rogers had never shown fear on his face, not when he jumped out of the quinjet, nor when he was beset by S.T.R.I.K.E. agents in the elevator. Rogers was showing it now.

Brock ordered Josef to go into the toilet and closed the door. He then picked up Carl’s gun.

“Let him go!” Brock shouted.

He shot. Twice. The bullets landed on the floor between Winter Soldier’s legs.

Winter Soldier took a brief glance at Brock. He looked as uninterested as a cat looking at a dying rat. The soldier didn’t let go of the Cap, instead, the metal hand squeezed more tightly to break Cap’s neck.

Brock knew that he had to shoot Winter Soldier if he wanted to save Rogers. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger.

Brock threw the gun away and lunged forward, driving both himself and Winter Soldier onto the floor.

Winter Soldier rolled on top of Brock and hit Brock in the face. Brock smacked Winter Soldier’s fist and kicked. The soldier didn’t even wince.

“Soldier! Stop!” Brock shouted.

The fist struck.

Blood was welling in Brock’s mouth. Winter Soldier hadn’t used his left hand yet but the right hand alone was heavy enough to deliver fatal blows. Again and again, harder and harder, Winter Soldier threw the punch. Brock didn’t fight back. He lay there, spitting the salty blood helplessly, listening to Winter Soldier’s deep-throated growls that vibrated with pure rage.

All of sudden, the torture stopped.

Brock looked up. All that he saw was a pair of blue eyes. Brock’s blood soaked face reflected in those eyes alongside terror.

Brock coughed up blood and whispered. “Soldier… remember me?”

Winter Soldier’s lips twisted. He looked at his hand, his bloodstained knuckle, and finally realized what he had done.

Brock closed his eyes. If his mouth wasn’t cut, he would smile.

“We meet again.”

That was all he managed to say before the darkness and the pain consumed him.

 

From far.. far... away, Brock heard Winter Soldier’s scream of agony. The sound so haunting had always nailed shame and guilt into his heart.

Not this time.

This time, Brock didn’t walk away.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

It was a peaceful day in North Dakota. The sky was clear with the mix of low-lying cotton-top clouds and a flood of baking sunshine. The dry wind blew over the golden grassy field as noon rolled in. The plain was torrid, covered by layers of heat and dust that were kicked up by a herd of bisons. A hundred yards away, the bisons were resting, grazing on native grasses as baby prairie dogs were playing and the older ones were basking in the blazing sun. The Britts’ ranch house stood in the middle of the open range, in the middle of all the charms of Badlands region. The wooden house had been cleaned, repaired, and painted. Despite the horror and the horrifying loss, the place was again being blessed by Meadowlarks’ cries. The birds had been chased away from the foothill garden by gunfire. They came back soon after the kids resumed feeding the chickens.

Everything seemed to be back to normal.

“Uncle Brock! Dinner will be ready in ten minutes!” Josef shouted from the house.

Brock was installing new fence posts at the foot of the hill, his chest and back soaked with sweat. He waved to the boy and started gathering the tools from the ground. His right shoulder hurt as he was picking up the old Klaus’ toolbox.

After a few weeks of rest, his broken jaw was healed. The bruises that had turned purple became smaller and faded. His body recovered surprisingly fast. The gunshot wound would soon become a scar. Brock wouldn’t whine about it. He was already ugly. So what if the little scar added up some spots to this singed eyesore? The shoulder still hurt from time to time. Ester forbade him to move the wounded shoulder, but Brock was bored of lying down.

Brock remembered well enough what had happened. But he didn’t know by whom the hole in his shoulder had been patched up and the wounds had been tended.

Strange enough, he wished that person were Carl. The doctor.

_You don’t even remember me._

That was true. Brock still couldn’t remember Carl. He couldn’t remember who Carl was. Was the man really a doctor? Did Carl really save Brock’s life? What Carl told him could be a big lie. With Carl dead, there would be no way to dig up the truth. The memory which the self-proclaimed doctor had held on tightly died with him.

At least, Brock would remember Carl. From this day on, as long as he didn’t fall into HYDRA’s hands and let those bastards mess with his head again, he would. Remember. Forever. Brock’s memories of Carl would be full of dirty plans and the gray eyes so cold, but, in his head, the doctor would be smiling. Carl would be real pleased that eventually he wasn’t forgotten.

Brock didn’t know where Carl’s lifeless body was taken and he didn’t know who to ask. When he woke up, everyone and everything had already vanished into thin air as if those scary days were dreams. But the holes in the cupboard proved that the bad dreams were real.

The scream.

It was real.

Brock had thought that someone would come to get him. The government. Captain America. HYDRA. Anyone.

Preferably, Cap.

Brock had promised that he would go with Rogers, hadn’t he? Brock was ready to fulfill that promise if in return Rogers promised him the children’s safety and well-being. Even though they were enemies, Brock knew that Rogers would see to it. Rogers would keep his words. Captain America was well respected for that sort of things.

But no one had come.

Days grew into weeks. Brock had thought about walking to the police station in Watford and giving himself up, but he later thought against the idea because of two reasons.

One, he was afraid that he would, like Carl, be used by the government to get Captain America and his comrades instead of being locked up.

And two, he was worried about Ester.

Ester was still haunted by the shocking experience. She was nervous and would feel very anxious if she was left alone. Josef slept in Ester’s bedroom at night. The boy asked Brock to take care of Ester when he was at school. Ester was also paranoid about Josef being abducted again, so she asked Josef to call home every few hours. The kids finally followed Brock’s advice and bought cell phones even though they couldn’t use them at the ranch. Josef called from school using a landline telephone twice a day to assure his sister that he was safe and see that she was safe as well. The kids were a worrying mess. They checked up on Brock too, making sure that he wouldn’t do anything stupid. Sometimes, Brock heard Ester sob in the bathroom and his heart was split into two.

It was his fault. He shouldn’t have stayed this long. He shouldn’t have brought bad luck into this family.

“Uncle Brock!” Josef called his name. “Look! A car!”

The boy pointed at the roasting wild range. The bisons started to walk as a black car was running this way.

“Get in the house! And get me the shotgun!” Brock hurriedly climbed up the hill.

Josef handed him the old shotgun and ran back into the house. Brock waited in the front yard. He watched the car cut across the field and halt at the foot of the hill. The driver was Okoye. She met his eyes with a friendly nod.

Rogers and Barnes got out of the car. As soon as Barnes laid an eye on Brock, the soldier took a deep breath. Barnes’ facial expression softened. His eyes were painted with deep regret. Brock knew without asking that Barnes had regained control of his body.

Before Brock could do anything, a stone was thrown to Rogers. Cap grabbed it effortlessly and raised his eyebrows at Josef, who was running into the front yard.

“Go away!” Josef yelled. His sister followed him out. The kids came to stand between Brock and the superhuman duos, posturing their arms protectively.

“You can’t take Uncle Brock!” The boy shouted.

The Great Captain America raised his eyebrows even higher.

“I told you that Uncle Brock was a good guy. HYDRA erased his memory and made him do all the bad stuff,” Josef said.

Cap sent the stone up into the air and grabbed it. “Well, the only witness is gone. Your words alone are hardly a proof.”

“I heard Carl say that!” Josef told them. “And Uncle Brock saved your life.”

Rogers looked at the boy, and then threw his perfect blue eyes at Brock. Rogers’ face grew serious. “Rumlow?”

“I promised him, Josef,” Brock said. “I don’t mind being taken in. I have been waiting for him.”

“You promised that you’d be here for us, too! What about Ester? Are you going to leave her like this?” Josef yelled, and then he shut his mouth firmly.

The boy was very upset. Josef refused to step aside when Brock asked him to. Ester wasn’t any better. She hugged herself, casting her eyes downward in distress. Brock wanted to reach over and pull her tiny body to him. But if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave.

How could he be proud of himself and how could the kids be proud of him if he ran away from his responsibility?

Five years? Ten years? Life? He had no idea how long he would be incarcerated but he would behave so that, maybe, he would have a chance to get paroled.

“I’ll go with you,” Brock told Rogers, “but I ask you to do one thing for me.”

Rogers and Barnes looked at each other.

“What would it be?” Barnes asked.

“Take care of these kids while I’m gone.”

Rogers solemnly nodded. “Consider it done.”

Josef looked up. His face was red. He took his sister’s hand and mumbled, “I don’t want his protection.”

“What? You don’t want Captain America’s protection?” Brock tried to make a joke.

“He isn’t Captain America anymore. I watched the news. He’s a criminal on the run. Why don’t he give himself up too?”

Brock didn’t know what to say. He scratched his forehead and let out a sigh.

“Listen, guardians.” Rogers opened his mouth. His handsome face sported a deep frown. “Don’t hate me. I didn’t come here to steal your Uncle Brock.” He glanced at Brock briefly. “I’m taking him to Okoye’s master.”

Josef blinked. He made hand gestures so Ester could understand too. Their faces immediately brightened up.

“I asked Nat to look into the government and military records. She found your doctor. He’s a former combat medic graduated from USU. We don’t know how he ended up with HYDRA, but we kind of believe what he said about trying to save you,” Rogers explained.

“Nat found your information in the system too. But the registered address is half a country away. With only that address, no one could ever find this place. Carl shot his men before leaving me with Bucky. I found more corpses in the car that took you away. I didn’t understand him then, but I do now.”

“We talked to Okoye’s master,” Barnes cut in. “We won’t hand you to the government.”

“Is that it? I’m off the hook?” Brock asked.

“Not really. Aneka will keep an eye on you while you cooperate with her team.”

“Her team?”

“Your skills. Bucky said you could put it into good use.”

“You mean, you want me to work with you?”

“Not with me.” Rogers shook his head immediately. “You won’t get involved in Avengers’ bloody mess. Your assignment will be mostly terrorism-related operations in Africa.”

In Africa. Where many people had died because of him. Because of his dumb act.

“Look,” Brock said, “if you are doing this because you believe Carl... Don’t. I know what I’ve done. I chose that path. I regretted it and I’m fully responsible. I don’t think people in Lagos would want me out there roaming their country. Surely, they’d want to kill me.”

Josef narrowed his blue eyes at Brock as if he wanted to tell Brock to shut up.

“Do you want to die, Rumlow?”

Rogers’ question hit him like a blow.

Did he want to die?

“Not really,” Brock shook his head slowly. “I just want to pay for my crime.”

Rogers crossed his arms across his chest. He thought for a little while. “What’s the good of locking you up? You’d be useless moping your life away in a cell.”

“But—”

Cap waved his hand. “No buts. If you want to pay for the loss of those people, pay by protecting them. This is your punishment, Rumlow. You aren’t off the hook.”

“Steve,” Barnes talked to his friend. “I’ll talk to him. After that, I’ll take him there.”

Steve seemed concerned but he nodded his agreement. Cap turned around and opened the car’s door.

“Pal,” Barnes called out again, “you forgot something.”

Rogers paused. The big guy placed his palms on his hip and looked at his feet, his expression stern.

Finally, Rogers turned to face Brock. “Thank you for saving me. I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” Brock said. “I tried to kill you. Remember?”

“What I remember is that you used to watching my back and doing Nat’s job when she decided to do something else. Spy or not, you were really good at being the team leader.”

“I handcuffed you.”

“Oh, yeah. You handcuffed me, tough guy. But you weren’t man enough to pull the trigger in front of the press,” Roger retorted.

Their eyes battled.

Brock bowed his head.

“You did great,” Rogers said solemnly, “better than me.”

Rogers crawled into the car. He waved at the kids who were still wary of him. Okoye woke up the engine and drove away.

“What does that mean?” Josef asked.

“You are so right.” Barnes’ eyes followed the leaving car. “Kicked him in the guts.”

“I did?” The boy frowned.

Barnes nodded, his mouth curved into a faint smile. “Steve is working on it.”

“Is Uncle Brock still living with us?” Josef changed the topic cheerfully.

Barnes smiled. “I hope so.”

“Cool. We are having bean curry for dinner. You want some?”

“I’m starving!” Barnes merrily grinned. “I have to talk to Uncle Brock first. You kids go ahead.”

Brock watched Josef pull Ester into the house. The boy motioned his hand to communicate with his sister and her face suddenly lit up. They looked so happy.

Barnes didn’t look so happy.

The soldier observed Brock’s face as Brock observed his. The weary blue eyes trailed up his scars. The soldier’s pink lips moved but didn’t produce a sound. Barnes shoved his hands in his pants’ pockets and looked down.

“You two made up?” Brock asked.

Barnes gave Brock a stiff smile. “Yes.”

Brock didn’t know what to say. He murmured, “that’s good.”

“I almost killed him.” Barnes shifted his feet. “Almost killed you too. I’m sorry.”

“No, you didn’t. That wasn’t you.”

“That was me,” Barnes said. “I saw everything. I felt my hand curling around Steve’s throat. I knew exactly whom I was strangling, hitting, but I couldn’t stop. Thank you for saving him.”

“I didn’t do it for Cap.”

A smile lifted the corner of Barnes’ mouth. “You did it for me, then.”

Brock was quiet for a few seconds. “I didn’t want you to kill him, yes. And I might do it for myself.”

“Thank you.” The smile on Barnes’ face became wider. But it was still a sad smile. “Thank you for stopping me. I should have fought harder but... I’m weak.”

Brock snorted.

Barnes looked at him with a question in his eyes.

“You are _not_ weak. I’ve watched you fight since I joined HYDRA. You were the fighter I looked up to. Your techniques. Your nerve of steel. Your loyalty. Anything but weak.” He pushed his hands up when he saw that Barnes was going to interrupt him. “I know you were hypnotized but you are the best warrior I’ve ever seen. Watching you fight back then was the thrill of my life.

“A few years later, I was assigned to work for Pierce. It was the first time I saw you as an asset being operated in the laboratory. It was the first time I knew that you didn’t volunteer to be the Winter Soldier. You were… pathetic. You should have killed those guys and escaped. You could easily. I didn’t understand why instead of freedom you chose the pain. I wished you would… teach Pierce a lesson or two and disappear.

“When you came to my place. I wanted to let you go. I thought about letting you go.” Brock took a shuddering breath. “But then I thought, if I let you go, I wouldn’t have any chances to see you again.”

“So, you offered me a job.” Barnes chuckled.

“I should have let you go.”

“Pierce might have killed you.”

“It would be better that w—”

“Stop!”

Brock clamped his mouth shut.

“I didn’t want to hear that again, Squirt. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Barnes scolded Brock, his gentle face flooded with worry. Brock cast his eyes to the ground.

The soldier shook his head. “You will live. If not for yourself, do it for the kids.” Barnes paused for a few seconds. He stepped closer. “Do it for me. You are the only one who can bring me back fast enough if I’m hypnotized.”

“My bloody face can.” Brock said sarcastically.

“And nothing else.”

Brock rubbed his scarred face. “But...”

Barnes came to stand by his side. Brock was going to step back to give them some distance, but his wrist was seized by the coolness of the metal hand.

“I don’t remember all of it but I do remember looking forward to finishing that one mission and going to your place.” Barnes rubbed Brock’s uneven skin with his thumb.

The touch sent a strange feeling flying everywhere inside Brock’s chest. Brock wanted to pull his hand away to stop whatever was happening, but he knew too well that if Barnes wanted to hold him, he had zero chance to break free.

“I had abandoned hope, Rumlow, but I got it back because of you. I felt like a human again because of you.”

“Didn’t do anything.”

“You did do _something_.” Barnes grinned.

Brock’s felt hot when the memory of that something streamed through his head. Barnes smiling wittingly didn’t help.

“I understand you,” Brock said. “I felt like that with them too.” He cocked his head to the house. “I feel like a human when I’m with Ester and Josef. They treat me like one.”

“Then be here. Take care of the kids. Or make the world better. Do whatever you have to do to make amends. Prisons and executions are tools for protecting societies from bad guys. But you aren’t a threat anymore. Am I right?”

Brock rolled his fingers into a fist. “I… I can’t answer your question. It’s an arrogant thing to say.”

Barnes smiled, pleased with Brock’s answer. “I talked to Steve and Okoye’s master. I’ll watch over you and the kids.”

Brock widened his eyes. “You mean you’ll live here?”

“No. I have to help Steve to make up with Stark. It’s partly my false, too. I’ll pay a visit and check up on you guys.”

“A probation officer.”

Barnes softly laughed. “I can talk to Steve and be a live-in probation officer if you want me to.”

“No, I don’t want no nanny. Now let go of my hand.” Brock pulled his wrist back but with no avail. Damn that prosthetic arm. Damn that smirk on Barnes’ face, too.

“I see you are building a fence. What’s it for?” Barnes, still not letting go of Brock’s hand, jerked his chin to the foot of the hill.

“Expanding business. We are going to raise cattle and horses.”

“I want to lend a hand.”

“Ask the kids. This is their land. I have no say in it.”

Barnes laughed.

Brock frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“You just gave me a free pass, Squirt. Your kids adore me.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

It was a good night in fall. After the Britts had gone to bed, as always Brock rounded the ranch house to check that the chicken coops and the barn were locked up properly. The orb of the night was full. The sky was clear of clouds. Brock didn’t have to use the flashlight. The chickens, the cows, and the horses were asleep. Some hens were aware of his presence. The birds woke up and cocked their little heads, but they didn’t bother squawking at him.

Brock was heading back to the house when he heard a high, squeaky voice of the backdoor being opened. That couldn’t be a burglar. He hadn’t heard any sound of engine. What kind of idiot would walk all the way to nowhere to rob a worn-down ranch? It could be a coyote or a swift fox. The last time a canine sneaked into the house, it had opened the fridge, eaten chicken breasts, and defecated under the sofa.

Brock cursed himself for not locking the door and not bringing the shotgun. If it was a fox, lucky him, but the adult coyote could be as large as three feet. He walked to the ranch house, making stomping noise loud and clear for the animal to hear, hoping that the sound would drive the little beast away before he reached the house.

The backdoor was closed.

Brock felt a shiver down his spine. Canines were smart enough to open a door but Brock had never heard that they closed any. Brock carefully leaned his face against the wooden board and peeked through the gap between the door and the wall.

Suddenly, the light inside the house was turned off.

Brock held his breath. He quietly picked up a shovel in the backyard and reached for the doorknob.

The door creaked open. It had been squeaking for some time now. Ester had told Brock to fix it but he had been busy with strengthening the barn for the coming winter. Now, Brock was regretting putting off lubricating the door hinge. Whoever in the house knew right away that he was entering. They would be scared to death if they knew that Brock armed himself with a shovel old enough to be their grandma.

The smell of knoephla soup—the supper—was still in the air under the magic of the night. Brock lowered his body, trying to catch a sound while his eyes were adjusting to the darkness. All the curtains had been drawn together, but still he threw his glance across the floor to the biggest window in the dining room, hoping for the aid of the moonlight. He contemplated turning the light on, but that would be dropping the only shield he had put on—the darkness.

He felt a drop of sweat rolled down the nape of his neck as he stepped forward.

“Don’t hit me with that thing. You’ll have to buy a new one.” An arrogant warning came with a low chuckle.

Brock stood up straight and sighed. “Not funny.” Brock smacked the light switch furiously. “I thought you were a coyote sneaking in to drop a log.”

Barnes was sitting at the dining table. The soldier was sporting a black tactical vest, a condor H-harness, and a dusty pair of dark cargo pants. His face was covered by a black ski mask. The goggles were laid carelessly on the dining table. He looked like the old Winter Soldier except that his hair wasn’t that messy, and his eyes were melting with joy.

“You came straight back from the _business trip_?” Brock asked, frowning. “You should have taken off the suit. What if someone saw you?”

“I don’t take it off because I know that you will drool over it.” Barnes grinned.

Brock stared, making a ‘seriously?’ face which he had learned from Ester. “Am I drooling?”

“But you like this, don’t you?” Barnes patted his chest.

“Yes, it suits you. Now take it off. I’ll get you something to eat.”

 

 

Brock heated the pan and picked a few eggs from the basket. Preparing the late supper for Barnes became a routine since the soldier had been inviting himself to stay at the ranch more often than not. Usually, Barnes came here on the night of a mission and stayed for three or four days, eagerly helping around the ranch. Whenever the soldier came, he would ask for a fried egg. Brock would end up making plenty of it.

And they would talk about their presents and their pasts. Plenty of it.

Brock would tell Barnes and the kids about his family, his work at S.H.I.E.L.D., his bachelor life in the capital, and the ranch. The Old Man would talk about his missions, his life during the Great Depression, his glorious days in the army, the Stark’s inventions, smaller Captain America, and the girls he had dated. Every memory they were carrying around, they laid it out bare and passed them to the next generation.

Sometimes, they took the children to the Little Mo for horse riding. Sometimes, they hunted for a prairie dog town. But talking and playing around weren’t Barnes’s main intention. Brock knew. The soldier was never shy about wanting to be more than a talking partner. Their conversations when the kids weren’t around, though carefree and friendly, never lacked of lighthearted flirtatious comments like Barnes had done earlier. As if Barnes was courting him. _Wooing_ , they used this word in the old days.

It was... weird.

It was crazy.

Barnes was crazy.

But Brock let it happen. He allowed the soldier to flirt with him. He let Barnes be crazy. Even though he would be freaked out if Barnes touched him.

 

Barnes had made a move. Once. To fill Brock’s bed.

Brock hadn’t had sex since he was burnt to the ground with the Triskelion. Despite the destroyed skin that granted him the immunity to pain, he still felt heat and cold, the pressure and the touches. Down there, he still could feel the pleasure. He still wanted to feel the pleasure, but every time he met his reflection in the mirror, he told himself no.

His ugly face and his disfigured earlobes looked back at him. They told him that he would make a fool of himself. That was why Brock had hidden his face under the skull mask and adopted the name ‘Crossbones’, forever saying goodbye to getting laid.

Brock jerked off. He was a man. He couldn’t help it. Many times, his attempt to stimulate himself failed miserably. He would lie in bed, feeling frustrated and freaking lonely.

He didn’t look like Brock Rumlow anymore. Crossbones suited him better. Ugly name. Ugly face. Ugly heart. Not to mention that he was a murderer. He didn’t deserve a lover, nor a partner.

Nor freedom. Nor happiness.

When Barnes crawled into his bed, at first, Brock couldn’t resist. But when they were at it, Brock suddenly felt disgusted. He was alarmed and ashamed of himself, ashamed of his fucked up body and his lack of self-control, so he pushed Barnes away.

He wasmade of corpses.People’s corpses _._ His own corpse. Like that monster of Frankenstein _._ Once, a boy in Watford had seen him and called him Freddy Krueger. Why did that misguided soldier want to make love to him?

They didn’t talk about it. On the next day, the two of them pretended that they’d never attempted anything. Barnes got back to saving the world. Brock got back to ranching.

However.

Brock regretted it.

He regretted turning down the offer.

There were times when Brock hoped Barnes would make the second attempt. There were times when Brock wanted to go to Barnes’ bed and beg the soldier to take him again. There were times when Brock entertained the thoughts of keeping his mouth shut and letting the soldier have his naughty way with him, all night long, letting Barnes lick his scars and feel him over. At those times, he wanted to throw away the guilt and the shame, tangling with Barnes, slamming against Barnes. He wanted to be embraced. He wanted to be owned.

There were times when Brock wanted to be crazy. Like Barnes. There were times when he wanted to be free.

There were times... hundred of times, when he wanted to be free of misery.

Brock prayed that the next time wouldnever came.

Punishing himself. Forcing himself to walk away from happiness. Hating himself every time he dared let himself be swept away by the good things in life. Brock knew now the reason Steve and Black Panther didn’t lock him up. Being doomed was easier than dooming oneself.

How could he think about sex?

How dare.

He looked at Ester and sometimes he wanted to cut off his dick if that would give Ester back the innocence and the enjoyment of life. The girl had told him, though, that she didn’t blame him one bit, that he should smile with her. Smile for her and Josef.

What about the people he had killed?

Should he smile for them, too?

He was helping Black Panther clean up the violence in Africa but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to ease up his guilt. Brock couldn’t pretend that he didn’t feel guilty. He would hang himself for pretending.

It was hard enough to live freely, knowing that someone, the ones he had killed, deserved to live more than he did. Still, living—just living—was easy compared to pretending to be normal and smiling in order to ease the kids’ worry.

Pretending was harder. Harder than death.

Like Rogers had said, Brock wasn’t off the hook.

 

Footsteps told Brock that Barnes came out of Josef’s old bedroom, wearing the sleeveless shirt and the navy blue sweatpants which the sergeant had left at the ranch a long time ago. Brock washed them and put them in Josef’s closet.

“We had knoephla soup for supper. Do you want some?” Brock asked, not bothering looking over his shoulder.

“If Josef made it, no.”

Brock had to agree that the boy was really bad at cooking. “I made it.”

Barnes came to stand beside him, peering into the pot. “I want some.”

“Go wait at the table.”

“Not going anywhere.”

The right arm of the soldier nudged Brock’s left one. The pale skin, still dampish from the shower, gently rubbed against his dark scars. Brock wasn’t brave enough to return the touch. He stood very still and let that familiar warmth surged through his body.

Until the guilt and the shame—his old buddies—swelled and blocked his throat. Brock swallowed them down and shifted away. “You seem to be in good spirits today.”

Barnes was grinning ear to ear. “I have something to tell you.” The one-hundred-year-old was acting like a little boy now. He was actually bouncing on his feet.

“What is it?”

“I’m retiring.”

“Of course you are. You’re one hundred years old. It’s time to wear diapers and play crossword all day.”

Barnes pouted and gave Brock a prod. “I’m serious, Rumlow, I’m retiring. I talked to Steve. And you’ll need those diapers before I do.”

“You won’t be a superhero anymore?”

“I’m not a hero. I’m not like Steve. Never will be,” Barnes said. “I can’t fight anymore, Rumlow. Good guys and bad guys fighting for the country, for justice, or whatever, I don’t believe in those things anymore.”

Barnes tapped his foot and stayed silent for a while.

“The next mission is going to be my last one. After that…”

Brock cracked the eggs into the pan. “Crossword and gossiping at the barber shop?”

Barnes chuckled. “No. I’ll live here full time.”

“What?” Brock’s heart shamelessly skipped a beat at the word ‘full time.’

Barnes flashed a shy smile. “When I went to war, I always had this feeling that maybe I was the bad guy. I lost the hunger to fight, just survived so that I could go back home. I always wished, you know, that I could go home and play about with Steve again.”

At home.

“I asked the kids the last time I came here. They said OK.”

“And you kept that from me?”

“Thought you had no say in it.” Barnes beamed at him.

Brock shook the pan. “No, I haven’t.”

“I’ll help you take care of the cows and the horses.” The Brooklyn boy leaned to him and smiled broadly. Barnes’ gentle voice painted a dreamy picture in the air. The picture of them working side by side. “Together, we’ll protect this land.”

“I’m not quitting,” Brock told Barnes. “I can’t be only a rancher. I’ll go when Aneka calls.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to quit. Do what you have to do. I’ll be here to help you.”

“I don’t need your help. Ester and I are going to stop by the animal shelter next week. We’ll adopt a guard dog or two.”

The sergeant leaned closer. “Adopt me too. Grrrrr.” The growl vibrated in Brock’s ears.

A flush warmed his face and neck. Brock chuckled.

“Did you laugh? You just laughed, didn’t you?”

Brock covered his blush with a glower. “Are you going to take Josef’s bedroom permanently?”

Brock heard a chuckle. “Ester is feeling better. Josef will move back to his own bedroom soon enough. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take yours.”

Brock inhaled and held his breath.

Was that a joke?

Did Barnes really mean it?

_Yes._

Brock’s cheeks felt hot as he suppressed the urge to say yes. Friendly smile melted away from his face.

Brock wouldn’t waste his time lying to himself that he didn’t want Barnes here, especially in his bed. Despite his self-condemnation, when hope appeared before him, Brock couldn’t help snatching and clinging to it like a stray to a shelter. _Normal people_ couldn’t help it. Normal people wouldn’t deny such a beautiful man like Barnes. He needed it. He needed Barnes. He needed the Britts. He needed love. All those words and propaganda he had believed before were nothing but lies and mistakes.

This was real.

This was precious.

But.

“You didn’t seem happy.”

“Do I ever?” Brock blinked. And then, he noticed that the eggs was overly cooked. He hurriedly turned off the stove and took the eggs out of the pan one by one.

After the fried eggs were safe, Brock then noticed the strong arms that were wrapping around his waist. Barnes pressed against Brock’s back, placing his head on the nape of Brock’s neck. Brock tried to shake them off, only to get wrapped more tightly. Protectively.

“Rumlow, be with me,” Barnes’ whisper caressed his skin softly. “Don’t go.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not planning to go anywhere.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes.

Yes, he knew.

The compulsion to commit the unforgivable sin came and went. But Brock wasn’t that weak. He wouldn’t opt for the easy escape. He had to live in his self-created cage.

“If you don’t like me flirting with you, I’ll stop. If it makes you freaked out, I’ll stop.” The soft voice’s quivered. “I won’t...”

“Barnes...” Not only the Britts, Barnes was also a worrying mess.

Barnes took a deep breath. “HYDRA stole everything from me. They stole my memory, my life, my death. I won’t let they do it. Not again. I will not let Pierce steal you from me.”

“He won’t,” Brock assured him softly. “He’s dead.”

Barnes placed his chin on Brock’s shoulder. Barnes’ wide chest bumped against Brock’s back. Barnes held Brock firmly, sharing the warmth and the silence. Being so close to Barnes was like being in the wild, covered by the darkness, pressed between the yellow glass and the black ocean of starlight. It was so quiet, so strange. So peaceful, yet so scary. It was new.

Barnes loosened the grip. The soldier carefully turned Brock around. Barnes’ hands sought Brock’s chest and then went to Brock’s shoulders. Worry flickered in those blue eyes.

“I know that feeling,” Barnes said. “The guilt. It hurts like hell.”

“Yeah, it hurts me too,” Brock looked down. He tightened his grips and loosened them several times. “But you don’t have to be worried. I’m not going to kill myself.”

Barnes nodded.

“I want to be happy,” Brock said quietly as if he was afraid to be heard, his voice shaking. “I don’t want to die like this. I want to be happy, too. But... I need more time.”

“I need more time for this, too.” Brock placed his hand on top of Barnes’ hand that was holding his right shoulder. “I want you here. No mistakes. But I ask you... to give me more time.”

Suddenly, Barnes’ eyes were wide and his handsome face brightened. The soldier pulled Brock to him and hugged Brock tight. Barnes’ heaving chest was a bubble of joy. His voice was breathless.

“That I can give you, Squirt,” Barnes said, “that I can give you.”

A fuzzy feeling rose from Brock’s stomach to his chest. He rested his head on Barnes’ shoulder. “Thank you.”

Barnes wrapped the strong arms around Brock protectively like a mother snake wrapped around her eggs. Brock could feel the soldier’s smile on his neck and the galloping heart that was jumping in his own chest. He could feel the heat between his legs, too. The smell of soap from Barnes’ stubbly chin and the soldier’s quickening breath were too close to ignore. Their bodies touched for too long.

“Have we ever kissed?” Barnes asked him.

Brock tensed up. He shook his head.

“Winter Soldier was an idiot.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Brock shot back.

Barnes growled.

“What?” Brock asked.

Barnes blew air out of his nose.

“What?” Brock frowned. “Did I say anything wrong?”

“Good grief! I’m jealous of myself.” The soldier murmured and then tightened his arms around Brock.

Brock arched his back, pushed Barnes’ chest, trying to set himself free.

“Stop wriggling,” Barnes said through his teeth. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t approve. I just want to know. So, we have never kissed?”

Brock shook his head again.

“Do you want to?”

Brock eyes widened. “I... I don’t...”

Barnes pulled away a bit just so he could look at Brock’s face.

“If I kissed you now, would you regret it later?” Barnes asked.

“M... maybe,” Brock stammered.

“And if I did more than kissing?”

“You said you wouldn’t do anything I don’t approve,” Brock protested.

“That’s why I’m asking for an approval.” The soldier grinned.

_Yes._

Just nod.

Just one nod and the fact that they had never kissed would change forever.

Barnes held Brock’s gaze. A rather wicked smile lifted the corner of his blessed mouth. “I’m kidding, Squirt. I promised you I’d wait. I’ll do just that.”

But the promise didn’t calm Brock down. Barnes was still close.

Close enough to lean into. Close enough for a peck on the mouth.

Barnes crossed his hands over his chest. The soldier poked his index finger at Brock’s heart. The poked heart was skipping so fast as Brock watched Barnes cross his hands in front of his chest, hitting one hand at another. And then, Barnes pointed at Brock again.

_I love you._

_I will protect you._

“You know the meaning?”

“Told you I’d write them in my memory book.” Barnes tapped his finger to his temple.

“Old man,” Brock grumbled. That earned him another hug.

“You lied to me, Rumlow. I read a sign language book and found the real meaning. Ester wanted me to protect you, huh? I’ll do just that.”

“I can take care of myself.” Brock pulled Barnes’ arms sharply and wriggled free. “Go wait at the table! I’ll get the bowl.”

Barnes didn’t let him go. Barnes yanked Brock to him. He locked Brock in his arms, planted a soft kiss on Brock’s neck.

“Seriously, Grandpa... You are in the way...,” Brock tried... tried to not give in.

Barnes ignored Brock and tightened the embrace. The soldier didn’t plan to go to the dining table anytime soon.

 

 

 

_The End_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m glad you are still with me at the end of the story. I can’t put into words how overjoyed I am to see—make—this happen, to complete the story that was once an I-think-it-would-be-good-if. It took me three years to finish.
> 
> I firstly wrote ‘Reset to Zero’ in October 2014 after enjoying ‘Captain America: The Winter Soldier’. I didn’t know why I started because, back then, writing a fan-fiction wasn’t my domain. But I kind of had fun portraying Brock Rumlow as an ordinary guy doing ordinary things with Winter Soldier and thinking about nothing complex, in my own way. That’s it. I forgot why I wrote ‘Reset to Zero’ as it is. But at the end of the story (the first part), I wanted to write more.
> 
> I heard that Rumlow would come back as the main antagonist in ‘Civil War’. I was excited. Hopefully, he would say more than 10 sentences, more than he had in The Winter Solider. Patiently, I had been waiting.
> 
> Main my ass.
> 
> I watched that kaboom twice in the theater. 
> 
> My ass also kaboomed.
> 
> Rumlow was gone. Gone-gone.
> 
> Thanks to my friend—Nuki—who whispered into my ear that Wanda could possibly send Rumlow away, I started to think. I started to paint, in my head, many and many what-ifs.  
> If I was going to continue my story of Rumlow and Bucky, the explosion had to stay. If Marvel wanted so much to kill him... fine. If Crossbones had to die that cheaply, so be it! I said bring it on. I would find the way to bring him back.
> 
> This time, not only Rumlow, I took an interest in Bucky as well, in his life and believe as he remembered who he actually was and was confronted with the word murderer. I watched The Winter Soldier and The Civil War again and again. And yet again. That scene in the laboratory when HYDRA put the gum shield in Winter Soldier’s mouth hurt every time. Sebastian Stan did a beautiful job there.
> 
> And then, I hunted for more Bucky’s scenes in ‘Captain America: The First Avenger’. I saw a well-groomed man—a soldier—so young, so brave, so gorgeous, with a bright future ahead of him, who was robbed by the war. The charm I saw didn’t exist in the last two Captain America movies as everything was sorrowful. Bucky was either messy or sweaty. Grumpy or angry. I knew then that even though I loved Winter Soldier I also wanted to bring that old Bucky back.
> 
> With many what-ifs, I completed ‘Reset to Zero, Count to Two.’ It was a strange story, I know. Illusional, I’m sorry to say this. But I am happy that I can share this piece of dream, my first and my last story of Rumlow and Bucky, with you.
> 
> Bye-bye!


End file.
